A 


., w-  t  k^  >--  ;  • — - 


U 


•^^  ■ 


THE    POETS 


OF   THE 


NINETEEITH    CENTURY. 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED 

BT    THE 

KEY.  ROBERT  ARIS  WILLMOTT, 

INCUMBENT   OF   BEAEWOOD. 


WITH     ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN    ADDITIONS, 

ARRANGED   BT 

EVERT    A.    DUYCKINCK, 

BDITOK   OF  Tire  CTCLOPEDIA   OP    AMERICAN   LITEEATUEE. 


ILLUSTRATED     WITH     ONE     HUNDRED     AND       FORTY  -  ONE      ENGRAVINGS, 
DRAWN    BY    EMINENT    ARTISTS. 


NEW     YORK: 
HARPER     &     BROTHERS,     PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN     SQUARE. 

1872. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  5'ear  187 1,  by 

HARPER  &:  BROTHERS, 

In   the   Office    of  the    Librarian   of   Congress,  at  Washington. 


iiqs 


e 


PREFACE. 


Vkky  suggestive  of  musical  and  pleasant  thoughts  is  the  Picture- 
gallery  which  this  Preface  opens  ;  and  among  them  is  the  recollection 
of  the  manner  in  which  these  choice  Word-paintings  have  been  con- 
tributed by  the  Authors,  or  their  representatives ;  always  Avith  liberal 
promptness,  and  sometimes  with  expressions  of  personal  good-will,  to 
be  gratefully  treasured.  Nor  can  I  forget  the  generous  enterprise  of 
the  Publishers,  and  the  tasteful  skill  of  the  Brothers  Dalziel,  by  whom 
the  grace  and  the  beauty  of  the  pencil  have  been  translated  into  the 
])opular  language  of  their  own  Art. 

The  Volume  embraces  a  period  of  about  eighty-five  years,  for  the 
lirst  Canto  of  the  Minstrel  appeared  in  1771;  Beattie  survived  Cowper 
only  three  years;  while  Percy,  exchanging  the  friendship  of  Goldsmith 
for  that  of  Scott,  lived  into  the  eleventh  year  of  this  century.  The 
dates  of  these  poets  might  seem  to  exclude  them  from  our  calendar ; 
but,  in  truth,  the  fancy  of  the  present  age  was  largely  inspired  and 
moulded  by  the  past ;  and  the  sentiment  of  the  Minstrel,  the  natural- 
ness of  the  Task,  and  the  simplicity  of  the  Reliqiics,  very  strikingly 
]-eappear  in  Campbell,  AVordsworth,  and  Scott.  Nor  has  the  embel- 
lished landscape  of  Darwin  been  without  imitators ;  while  the  foot- 
prints of  Rogers  are  easily  traced  in  the  trim  garden-paths  of  Ilayloy. 
One  member  of  the  classic  band  will  be  less  familiar  to  general  read- 
ers:  I  allude  lo  Professor  Crowe,  Avhose  descriptive  poem  is  Avritti'n 
with  fine  taste,  and  in  choice  numbers.  The  traveller,  walking  from 
Charmouth  to  Lyme,  disco\ers  Lewesdon  Hill  on  the  right  hand,  and 
forming  one  of  the  boundaries  to  a  rich  vale  chequered  l)y  enclosures. 

Our  Poetry  owes  many  beauties  to  womanly  genius,  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing pages  some  specimens  of  it  Avill  be  found..    The   "Psyche"  of 

A* 


:£:G387 


ii  PREFACE. 

Mary  Tighe  yet  lives  in  the  memory  of  Taste ;  but  Scotland  furnishes 
a  greater  name  :  "  If  you  wish  to  speak  of  a  real  poet,"  Scott  said  to 
Ballantyne,  "Joanna  Baillie  is  now  the  highest  genius  of  our  country." 
He  numbered  the  description  of  Orra's  madness  with  the  sublimest 
scenes  ever  written,  and  compared  the  language  to  Shakspeare's.  The 
Songs  of  Mrs.  Hemans  aiFord  a  lively  contrast.  It  was  her  misfortune 
that  she  wrote  to  live,  instead  of  living  to  write.  Her  compositions, 
therefore,  are  unequal ;  but  in  her  best  pieces  the  eye  is  delighted  by 
the  glow  and  colour,  and  the  ear  is  soothed  by  the  varied  cadence — 
often  delicious,  never  harsh.  The  visionary  tenderness  and  romance  of 
Mrs.  EadclifFe  are  breathed  over  the  Address  to  Melancholy,  and  the 
Song  of  a  Spirit.  The  quotation  from  Hannah  More  was  chosen  for 
the  subject  which  it  offered  to  the  Artist,  who  has  so  happily  embodied 
it  in  his  yenre  sketches.  The  chaste  elegance  of  Mrs.  Barbauld  is  of  a 
higher  order;  and  very  true  poetic  feeling  and  utterance  are  conspicu- 
ous in  the  local  pictures  and  the  tender  Sonnets  of  Charlotte  Smith, 
which  Miss  Seward,  clever  in  her  spite,  called  "  everlasting  duns  upon 
pity." 

One  name  in  the  tuneful  Sisterhood  has  a  home  interest  for  me. 
It  seems  but  yesterday  that  the  shutters  were  shut  in  "  Our  Village," 
and  Mary  Russell  INIitford  went  from  among  us.  "While  turning  over 
the  leaves  of  this  book,  I  have  thought  of  the  kindly  welcome  with 
which  she  would  have  greeted  the  illustration  of  her  own  "  Rienzi," 
ff  I  had  taken  it  to  her  on  one  of  these  soft  autumn  days  which  she 
loved  so  much,  and  when  her  familiar  lanes  and  dingles  wear  their 
sweetest  colours.  She  had  compared  her  old  abode  to  a  bird-cage  that 
might  be  laid  on  a  shelf,  or  himg  upon  a  tree ;  and  her  latest  dwelling 
was  hardly  less  odd,  or  dwarfish.  But  there,  also,  she  had  a  cool  re- 
treat out  of  doors,  in  the  shade  of  her  garden,  and  I  see  her  sittinfj 
in  it  now  with  table  and  book ;  constant  to  all  her  little  heresies  of 
taste  ;  reading  the  interminable  Richardson  every  year,  preferrins; 
wood -embers  to  the  fairest  moonbeams  that  ever  lighted  lovers,  and 
panegyrising  the  nightingale's  song,  if  accompanied  by  the  moan  of  the 
pigeon. 

But  the   Brotherhood  has    names,  also,   to  be    remembered   by  me 
with  very  sincere  regard.      Wlien  I  read  the  description  of  the  dying 


PEEFACE.  iii 

Adam  by  James  Montgomery — a  passage  exquisite  in  conception,  im- 
agery, and  language  —  tlae  author  is  before  me  as  I  saw  liim  in  my 
early  youth.  Lisle  Bowles  is  another  name  to  be  marked  with  a  white 
stone.  A  delightful  spot  was  Bremhill  —  indeed,  is  still  —  with  the 
quaint  garden,  and  the  swans.  Snow-drop  and  Lily,  sailing  up  to  the 
parlour  window  to  inquire  after  their  dinner,  and  Peter  the  hawk,  and 
the  Vicar  holding  his  Avatch  to  his  ear,  to  make  sure  that  he  had  not 
grown  deaf  since  breakfast.  Southey  visited  the  Parsonage  Avhen  the 
loveable  old  man  was  in  his  seventy-thiid  year,  and  presented  to  the 
eye  of  his  friend  the  most  entertaining  mixture  that  could  be  of  un- 
tidiness, simplicity,  benevolence,  timidity,  and  good-nature ;  but  nobody 
smiled  at  his  oddities  more  heartily  than  the  owner.  The  poetical 
merits  of  Bowles  are  great.  His  sonnets  delighted  Coleridge,  and  even 
Byron  acknowledged  the  excellence  of  The  Missionary. 

Of  all  the  elder  poets  of  our  time,  my  examples  are  less  numerous 
than  I  had  hoped  to  give.  The  lines  of  Wordsworth  on  Tintern  Ab- 
bey are  omitted  from  want  of  room ;  and  the  most  striking  effort  of 
Southey's  imagination,  the  agony  of  Kailyal  at  her  father's  flight,  was 
ill  adapted  for  pictorial  use.  The  fame  of  Coleridge,  however,  will  not 
suffer  loss  by  resting  on  Genevieve,  who  has  caught  a  new  grace  from 
the  hand  of  Millais.  Among  these  earlier  poems,  the  reader  will  be 
attracted  by  the  Legend  of  Kilmeny,  which,  for  a  moment,  lifts  the 
Shepherd  to  the  side  of  Burns  ;  by  the  sunshiny  morals  of  Praed,  who 
reminds  me  of  an  Ariosto  brought  up  in  England;  and  by  the  sea- 
views  and  the  Dutch  painting  of  Crabbc. 

If  I  could  have  turned  my  Preface  into  an  illustrated  catalogue, 
these  poems  would  have  furnished  agreeable  notes ;  for  to  many  some 
little  story  is  attached ;  as  in  the  case  of  Keats,  whose  Ode  to  the 
Nightingale  was  written  in  the  spring  of  1819,  when  the  fatal  disease 
lay  so  heavy  at  his  heart,  that  Coleridge,  meeting  him  in  a  lane  near 
Highgate,  remarked  —  "There  is  deatli  in  that  hand."  The  stanzas 
beginning  "  The  sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill"  become  more  affecting, 
when  we  arc  told  that  Scott  composed  them  during  the  languor  of 
sickness,  and  tliat  they  mark  the  very  spot  of  their  birth,  now  clothed 
by  rich  woodlands,  the  work  of  the  Poet's  hand.  Tlie  Elm  Tree 
might  also   claim  a  paragraph,  to  tell   of  the   solemn   Avenue  which 


iv  PREFACE. 

inspired  it ;  and  certainly  "  Umbrageous  Ham"  has  not  been  mused  in 
by  a  more  genial  visitor,  since  the  frequent  feet  of  Thomson  broke  the 
shadows.  The  noble  verses — "Wine  of  Cyprus"  —  should  recall  the 
memory  of  the  blind  Scholar  to  whom  they  were  addressed;  and  the 
compositions  of  Frances  Brown  will  lose  a  charm  if  the  shadow  on 
her  eyes  be  forgotten.  But  of  living  Poets  I  may  not  speak.  They 
are  here  to  speak  for  themselves  in  tones  of  harmony,  grandeur,  and 
pathos,  to  which  few  ears,  I  suppose,  will  be  deaf.  The  list  might 
have  been  enlarged, 'but  a  great  Constituency  can  only  be  represented 
by  a  few  Members. 

TJ.    A.    WlIXMOTT. 
St.  Catharine's,  October  2,  1856. 


AMERICAN   PREFACE. 

The  volume  of  "Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,"  edited  by  the 
Rev,  R.  A.WiLLMOTT,  a  most  loving  and  judicious  critic  of  English 
literature,  is  here  pi'eserved  entire,  with  some  important  extensions. 
The  selections  have  been  increased  from  four  hundred  to  six  hundred 
and  seventy-four  pages,  and  a  proportional  addition  has  been  made 
to  the  number  of  Engravings.  The  new  material,  in  both  instances, 
will  be  found  indicated  in  the  Table  of  Contents. 

The  work  of  Mr.  Willmott  was  confined  to  writers  of  his  own 
country.  In  the  present  volume  a  liberal  space  has  been  given  to 
American  authors,  illustrated  by  American  artists.  Additional  illus- 
trations of  English  poems  are  furnished  from  the  pencils  of  painters 
of  eminent  merit,  making  the  work  a  very  comprehensive  represen- 
tation of  the  art  of  the  day  as  applied  to  literature. 

New  York,  November,  1871. 


CONTENTS. 


A  Star  prefixed  to  the  Titles  indicates  matter  added  in  the  present  American  Edition. 


•  PAGK 

JAMES  BEATTIE. 

THE   POET    IN    YOUTH I 

MORNING    LANDSCAPE 4 

CALM    AND    STORM 5 

A    VALLEY    AMONG    THE    HILLS 6 

RETIUEME  NT 8 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 

Y'ARDLEY  OAK 11 

LINES    TO    MY    MOTHEr's    PICTURE 17 

WILLIAM  HAYLEY. 

THE    VISION    OF   SERENA 21 

JAMES  HURDIS. 

RURAL   SOUNDS 24 

CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 

THE   SWALLOW 26 

SONNET  WRITTEN   AT  THE    CLOSE    OF   SPRING  29 

SONNET SO 

SONNET  ON  THE    DEPARTURE  OF  THE    NIGHT- 

INGALE ib. 

FROM    "BEACHY    head" 31 

ANNA  SEWARD. 

SONG 35 

^  ERASMUS  DARWIN. 

MARCH    OF    CAMBY'SES 36 

THREE   IMPRESSIONS    OF    ANTIQUE    GEMS 38 

TASTE 39 

WILLIAM  CROWE. 

LEWESDON   HILL 41 


PAGE 

THOMAS  PERCY. 

THE    FRIAR    OF    ORDERS    GRAY 47 

GENTLE    RIVER 51 

GEORGE  CRABBE. 

A    GIPSY    ENCAMPMENT 55 

MARINE    VIEWS. 57 

A    GOOD    VILLAGER 62 

THE   PARTING    LOOK 65 

MARY  TIGHE. 

PSYCHE   GAZING    UPON    THE    LOVE-GOD 66 

ANN  RADCLIFFE. 

TO    MELANCHOLY  69 

SONG    OF    A    SPIRIT 71 

ANNA  LETITIA  BARBAULD. 

A    SUMMER    E\TENING's    MEDITATION 73 

A    PETITION 77 

HANNAH  MORE. 

FLORIO    AND    HIS   FRIEND 78 

W.  LISLE  BOWLES. 

RETURN  TO  OXFORD 88 

ON  THE  RHINE ib. 

THE    CELL    OF   THE    MISSIONARY 90 

THE    HOME    OF   THE   OLD    INDIAN 92 

LANDING    AT   TYNEMOUTH 97 

THE    BURIAL    PLACE 98 

SUNRISE 100 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

THE  OLD    HOUSE 102 

MOTHER   AND    CHILD 104 

AMELIA  OPIE. 

THE    ORPH.\N    boy's   TALE 106 

WILLIAM  SPENCER. 

TO    THE    LADY    ANNE   HAMILTON 108 

*  WIFE,    CHILDREN,    AND    FRIENDS 109 

LORD  BYRON. 

THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON Ill 

THE  DREAM 123 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

WRITTEN   IN    DEJECTION    NEAR    NAPLES 131 

TO    NIGHT 133 

SPRING 134 

JOHN  KEATS. 

ODE   TO    A    NIGHTINGALE 135 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 
LOVE 139 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

THE   GLORY    OF   IMAGINATION 143 

A    CLOUD   PICTURE 144 

DION 146 

INCIDENT    AT    BRUGES 150 

A    JEWISH    FAMILY 152 

*A    PORTRAIT 154 

*I.UCY 155 

*  SONNET    COMPOSED     UPON     WESTMINSTER 

BRIDGE 156 

CHARLES  LAMB. 

HESTER. A  REMEMBRANCE 1 5Y 

VERSES  FOR  AN  ALBUM 158 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

THE    HERB    ROSEMARY 159 

ODE    TO    DISAPPOINTMENT 160 


PAGE 

WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 

*  AMERICA    TO    GREAT    BRITAIN 162 

*  ROSALIE 163 

*A    FRAGMENT 164 

RICHARD  HENRY  DANA. 

*THE   HUSB.'VND's   AND    waFE's    GRAVE 165 

''■'A    CLUMP    OF    DAISIES 169 

SAMUEL  WOODWORTII. 

*  THE   OLD    OAKEN    BUCKET 171 

WALTER  SCOTT. 

THE  SUN    UPON    THE    WEIRDLAW    HILL 172 

MARMION DYING 174 

THE   BURNING   OF    ROKEBY 176 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL! 

THE   soldier's    DREAM 180 

THE    EXILE    OF    ERIN 181 

DRINKING    SONG    OF    MUNICH 183 

LOCHIEL's  WARNING 184 

HOHENLINDEN 187 

BATTLE    OF   THE    BALTIC 189 

YE   MARINERS    OF  ENGLAND 191 

RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE. 

*  ST.\NZAS 194 

JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

THE   DEATH    OF    ADAM 195 

JOANNA  BAILLIE. 

THE   PHRENZY    OF    ORRA 198 

JAMES  GRAHAME. 

THE    SABBATH 202 

SUNDAY    TO    THE   SHIPWRECKED 204 

A    SABBATH    WALK    IN    SUMMER 206 

ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 

LAMBS  AT  rL.\Y 210 

THE  F.\RMEr's  BOY  IN  THE  FIELDS 212 


CONTENTS. 


\n 


PAGE 

EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 

*  BU  ENS 215 

*A  poet's  epit.\ph 216 

*  SPRING 217 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

THE    LAMENT    OF    THE    PERI    FOR    HINDA 218 

NOIRMAIIAL 220 

CHARLES  WOLFE. 

TilE    BURIAL    OF   SIR  JOHN    MOORE 221 

ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 

THE   poet's    BRIDAL-DAY    SONG 223 

A    WET    SUEET    AND    A    FLOWING    SEA 225 

SIDNEY  WALKER. 

TO    A    GIRL    IN    UER   THIRTEENTU    YEAR 227 

JAMES  HOGG. 

THE    RAPTURE    OF    KILMENY 229 

CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 

*  THE    WINGED    WORSHIPPERS 2-36 

*  THE    BROTHERS  237 

FELICIA  HEMANS. 

THE    CORONATION    OF    INEZ    DE    CASTRO 238 

THE    MESSAGE    TO    THE    DEAD 2-12 

THE    RETURN 243 

MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

RIENZI    AND    HIS    DAUGHTER 245 

SONG 248 

LYDIA  HUNTLEY  SIGOURNEY. 

*  THE    INDIAN    SUMMER 249 

*jffHE    HOLY    DEAD 251 

*  TALK    WITH    THE   SEA 252 

REGINALD  HEBER. 

THE    PASSAGE    OF   THE    RED    SEA 254 

*  LINES    ADDRESSED    TO    MRS.   HEBEU 258 

*  LINES    WRITTEN    TO    A    MARCH 260 


PAGE 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

THE    VISIT    OF    MADOC. A    SCENE    AMONG 

THE    WELSH    HILLS 261 

THE    WORLD    OF    WOE 263 

THALABA    IN    THE   TENT    OF    MOATII 265 

SUNLIGHT    ON    THE    OCEAN 270 

CAROLINE  BOWLES  (MRS.  SOUTHEY). 

*  SUNDAY    EVENING 271 

JOHN  LEYDEN. 

TO    THE   EVENING   STAR 275 

TO    AN    INDIAN    GOLD    COIN 277 

JOHN  CLARE. 

*  MARY    LEE 279 

JOHN  G.  C.  BRAINARD. 

*  SALMON    RIVER 282 

*  THE    BLACK    FOX   OF    S.U.MON    RIVER 284 

EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY. 

*  A    HEALTH 286 

*  A    PICTURE-SONG 287 

CLEMENT  C.  MOORE. 

*A    VISIT    FROM   ST.   NICHOLAS 288 

BERNARD  BARTON. 

TO   THE   EVENING    PRIMROSE- 291 

WILLIAM  SOTHEBY. 

RHINEFIELD, A   LODGE    IN   THE    NEW   FOR- 
EST     293 

SKIRII),   A    HILL    NEAR    ABERGAVENNY 294 

ON     CROSSING     THE     ANGLESEY     STRAIT    To 

BANGOR    AT    MIDNIGHT ib. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

*  SONG  OF  Marion's  men 295 

*  GREKN    RIVER 298 

*  THE    DEATH    OF    THE    FLOWERS 301 

*  THE    LAND    OF    DREAMS 302 

*  THE    HUNTER   OF  THE    PRAIRIES 304 


VI  n 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

*  THE    GLADNESS    OF    NATURE 307 

*  WILLIAM    TELL 308 

*  AN    INVITATION    TO  THE  COUN'TUV 309 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

*  BRONX 311 

*  SONNET 313 

•     FITZ  GREENE  HALLECK. 


*  RED    JACKET 314 

*  CONNECTICUT 318 

*  ON  THE  DEATH  OK  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE    821 


HORACE  SMITH. 

*  THE   FIRST    OF    MARCH 


323 


GEORGE  DARLEY. 

*  HARVEST   HOME 324 

WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED. 

CHILDHOOD    AND    HIS    VISITORS 325 

THE    VICAR 327 

A    CHARADE 330 

THOMAS  HOOD. 

THE   ELM   TREE. A   DREAM  IN  THE  WOODS    332 

THOMAS  PRINGLE. 

AFAR    IN    THE    DESERT 347 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

THE    WATER  -  NYMPH     APPEARING     TO    THE 

SHEPH ERD 351 

RODERIGO    AND    JULIAN  353 

JOSEPH  BLANCO  WHITE. 

*  NIGHT    AND    DE.\TH  355 

JOHN  KEBLE. 

THE    LILIES   OF    THE    FIELD 356 

children's    THANKFULNESS 358 


HENRY  HART  MILMAN. 

THE    HEBREW    WEDDING 361 

THE    COMING    OF   THE    JUDGE 363 

LEIGH  HU^T. 

AN  ITALIAN  GARDEN 365 

ABOU  BEN  ADHEM 368 

GEORGE  CROLY. 

THE    ALHAMBRA 369 

FLORA 371 

SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

*  THE    FORGING    OF   THE    ANCHOR 372 

JOHN  MOULTRIE. 

THE  THREE  SONS 375 

"FORGET  THEE?" 378 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY. 

THE   SPANISH    ARMADA 379 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 

*  JEANIE    MORRISON 382 

*  THEY  come!    the  merry  SUMMER  MONTHS    385 
*A    SOLEMN    CONCEIT 386 

HENRY  TAYLOR. 

ARTEVELDE    IN    GHENT 389 

ERNESTO 396 


DAVID  MACBETH  MOIR. 


CASA    AVAPPY. 


399 


RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH. 

THE   SPILT    PEARLS 404 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

*  THE   HUMBLE-BEE •  406 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMANN. 

*  SPARKLING    AND    BRIGHT 408 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


GEORGE  P.  iJORRIS. 

*  WOODMAN,  SPARE   THAT   TREE 409 

*  POETRY 410 

RALPH  HOYT. 

*  SNOW A    WINTER    SKETCH Ill 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS. 

*  BLESSINGS    ON    CHILDREN 416 

NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS. 

*  UNSEEN    SPIRITS 419 

*  LITTLE    FLORENCE    GRAY 420 

HENRY  ALFORD. 

HYMN    TO   THE   SEA 423 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 

*  THE    BALLAD    OF    BOUILLABAISSE 426 

*  THE    END    OF   TOE   PLAY 429 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

THE   MAY    QUEEN 432 

*  MORTE  d'arthur 439 

*  EDWARD  GRAY 449 

*  THE  GOOSE  451 

BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK 454 

PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE. 

*  FLORENCE  VANCE 456 

*  YOUNG  ROSALIE  LEE 457 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

*  MAUD    MULLER 459 

*  GONE 463 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

*  THE    RAVEN  466 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

*  HYMN    TO   THE   NIGHT 471 

*  RESIGNATION 473 

*  KING    WITLAf's    DRINKING-HORN 476 

*  EXCELSIOR 479 


HENRY  THEODORE  TUCKERMAN. 

*  WEST    POINT 482 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

*  THE    LAST    LEAF 485 

*  ON    LENDING    A    PUNCH-BOWL 488 


ALFRED  B.  STREET. 

'"   A    FOREST    NOOK 


491 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 

TWO    IN    THE    CAMPAGNA  494 

EVELYN    HOPE 497 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

WINE   OF   CYPRUS 499 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

THE  THREE  FISHERS 505 

THE  SANDS  OF  DEE 506 

*  THE  DAY  OF  THE  LORD 507 

WILLIAM  EDMONSTOUNE  AYTOUN. 

*  THE    BURL\L-MARCH    OF    DUNDEE 508 

THOMAS  DAVIS. 

THE   SACK    OF    BALTIMORE 514 


EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON. 


EVA. 


hVi 


BRYAN  WALLER  PROCTER. 


THE    HISTORY    OF    A    LIFE 526 

WITHIN    AND    WITHOUT 527 

EDWIN  ATHERSTONE. 

B.\TTLE   SCENES 530 

MARY  HO  WITT. 

THE    BALLAD    OF    RICHARD    BURNELL 533 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

*  TO    A    GIPSY    CHILD    BY    THE    SHORE 547 


CONTENTS. 


W.  C.  BENNETT,  |  WILLLyil  ALLEN    BUTLER. 

*  HABY  S    SilOKS 550  I  *  NOTHING    TO   WEAR 599 

*  Lilian's  iiPiT.vp>i 551 

!  BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

ALEXANDER  SMITH.  i  ^ 

*  DAUGIITKR  OF   EGYPT GIO 

SCENE — THE  BANKS   OF  A  KUEU bi>2  <  *  qj,.   im,-   gj^  ^ {Ij_ 

PICTURES 554      *  BiiDoUIN   SONG T  .    611 


PHILIP  JA3IES  BAILEY. 


^y.  D.  HOWELLS. 


A  SUJOIER  NIGHT .    50(       *  sAINT   CHRISTOPHER G13 

WORDS .....'....   558 

PORTRAIT  OF  A  L,\DY 559  1  HENRY  M.  ALDEN. 


SHEKIDAN  KNOWLES. 

THE  APPEAL  AND  THE  REPROOF 


*  THE  ANCIENT  "  LADY  OF  SORROW" 615 


560 


R.  H.  STODDARD. 


GERALD  MASSEY. 

OLTR  WEE  WHITE   ROSE . 664 

THAT   BIERRY,  JIERRY   JIAY  ..............    566 

BABE  CHRISTABEL 568 

WILLIA3M  ALLINGHAM. 

AUTUMNAL  SONNET 

CHARLES  MACKAY. 

YOUTH   ANT)   SORROW 


570 


571 


FRANCES  BROWN. 

THE   HOPE   OF   THE   RESURRECTION 574 

ALL    THINGS    NEW 576 


THOMAS  WILLIAIM  PARSONS. 

*  SORRENTO 5"^ 

*  SAINT  PERAY' 581 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


THE   SEA  . 


"^  ON   THE    PIER 

*  THE   SKY   IS   THICK    UPON    THE    SEA.  . 

JULIA  C.  R.  DORR. 

*  THE    DRUMSIER-BOY'S    FUNERAL 


DANTE  G.  ROSSETTL 

IHE    SE.V-LIMITS 


618 
ib. 

619 


620 


623 


CHRISTINA  GABRIELLA  ROSSETTL 

*  A   BIRTHDAY 624 

*  SING   NO   SAD   SONGS   FOR  SIE ib. 

CHARLES  A.  SWINBURNE. 

*  BEFORE    PARTING G26 


E.  C.  STEDMAN. 


*  THE   SINGING   LEAVES  .  . 

*  LONGING 

*  AUF    WIEDERSEHEN  !  .  .  . 

*  PALINODE 


*  THE    DOOR-STEP 

*  DARKNESS   AND  THE   SHADOW, 


628 
630 


MARIA  LOWELL. 

THE   ALPINE   SHEEP 592 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


584  CHARLES  G.  HALPINE   (MILES 

588  O'REILLY). 

.589  I   *  itESIGNED Col 

590 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 

633 


DAY   IS    DYTNC; 


*  SPRING 

*  IT   WAS   IN   THE    PRIME. 


634 

635 


ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS. 


'■'  THE  W.\Y'SIDE   SPRING 594 

*  THE   CLOSING   SCENE 596  !  *  A   DOG'S-DAY   liNDED G36 


CONTENTS. 


LUCY  LARCOM. 

HANNAII   BINDING   SHOES 


639 


S.  S.  CONANT. 
A  dkea:\i  of  fairies 


652 


ALICE  CARY. 

■■f  t:  THOU  THAT  DRAWEST  ASIDE  THE  CUR- 
TAIN"      641 

*  '•COME  OUT   TO    THE    SIDE   OF   THE   SEA"   642 


PHCEBE  CARY. 

*  UREAJIS  AND   REALITIES 


JOHN  HAY. 


'^  my  castle  in  spain . 
*  wojian's  lovt; 


643 


645 
647 


BRET  HARTE. 


*  CICELV . 


GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 

DIRGE   FOR  A   SOLDIER 650 

SONNET 060 


WALT   WHITJL^N. 

PROUD  MUSIC  OF   THE   STORM .  .  . 


601 


ANNIE  C.  KETCHUM. 

'■'■  DOLORES 6G8 


MARK  LEMON. 

649  I  *  OLD  TIME  AND  I 


673 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


A  Star  prefixed  to  the  Titles  indicates  new  Illustrations  in  the  present  American  Editioiu 


DKAWN   BY 


The  Poet  in  Youth Beattie B.  lo-itir 1 

A  Valley  among  the  Hill.- Ditto \V.  Harvcji C 

Retireiient Ditto^ Ditto 8 

Yardley  Oak Couper Ditto 11 

Lines  to  my  Mother's  Pictiue Ditto -/.  Gilbert 17 

The  Vision  of  Serena Hayley... A.  Hitgliet: 21 

Rural  Sounds Hurdis //.  Weir 24 

The  Swallow Charlotte  Smith. B.  Foster 26 

From  "Beachy  Head"  Ditto Ditto 31 

The  Shepherd's  Home Ditto Ditto 33 

Taste Darwin T.  Dalziel 39 

Lewesdon  Hill Crowe B.  Foster 41 

The  Thirsty  Lamb Ditto Ditto 44 

The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray Percy ./.  Tenniel 47 

G ENTLE  River Ditto Ditto 53 

A  Gipsy  Encampment Crabbe B.Foster 55 

Marine  Views  : — Calm Ditto E.  Duncan 59 

Storm Ditto Ditto Gl 

A  Good  Villager Ditto .J.  R.  Clayton 62 

To  Melancholy Ann  Eadcli(fe...B.  Foster 69 

A  Summer  Evening's  Meditation A.  L.  Barbauhl  .Ditto 73 

Florio  and  his  Friend: — The  Lounge Hannah  More.... I.  Godwin 78 

The  Opera Ditto Ditto 86 

On  the  Rhine Bowler. ./.  D.  Ilardina 89 

The  Home  of  the  Old  Indian Ditto W.  Harvey 95 

J-ANDiNG  at  Tynemouth Ditto T.  Dalziel 97 

Si'NRiSE Ditto W.  Harvey 101 

The  Old  House Rogers G.  Dodgso, 103 

The  Orphan  Boy's  Tale Amelia  Opie  ....T.  Dalziel 107 

The  Prisoner  of  Cuillon Byron F.  M.  Brow;i 113 


xiv  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


DEAWN   BY 


The  Dream Ditto /.  E.  Millais,  A.R.A 125 

Written  in  Dejection  near  Naples Shelley W.  L.  Leitch 131 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale Keals B.  Foster 135 

The  Stream Ditto Ditto 138 

Love Coleridcjc /.  E.  Millais,A.RA 139 

The  Glory  of  Imagination Wordsworth £.  Easter 143 

Incident  at  Bruges Ditto J.  R.  Clayton 151 

*  The  Husband's  and  Wife's  Grave Dana ./  H.  Hill 165 

The  Sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill Scott B.Foster 172 

Marmion — Dying Ditto J.  Tennicl 174 

The  Burning  of  Rokeby Ditto Ditto 176 

The  Exile  of  Erin Campbell T.  Dalziel 182 

HoHENLiNDEN Ditto J.  Gilbert 188 

Ye  Mariners  of  England Ditto E.  Duncan 192 

The  Sabbath Grahame B.  Foster 203 

A  Sabbath  Walk  in  Summer Ditto Ditto 207 

Lambs  at  Play Blomnficld W.  Harvey 211 

The  Farmer's  Boy  in  the  Fields Ditto B.  Foster 213 

The  Lament  of  the  Peri  for  Hinda Moore W.  Harvey 218 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore Wolfe /.  Gilbert 222 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea A.  Ciinningham.E.  Duncan 225 

To  a  Girl  in  her  Thirteenth  Year Sidney  Walker..,!.  R.  Clayton 228 

The  Rapture  of  Kilmeny  : — 

The  Land  of  Thought Hogg W.  Harvey 232 

The  Lanely  Glen Ditto Ditto ; 234 

The  Coronation  of  Inez  de  Castro Felicia  Hemans.  J.  Gilbert 238 

RiENZi  AND  his  DAUGHTER M.  R.  Mitford....J.  Tennicl 246 

*  The  Indian  Summer Sigourney /.  H.Hill 249 

The  Visit  of  Madoc Southcy ,/.  Gilbert 261 

Thalaba  in  the  Tent  of  Moath Ditto IF.  Harvey 265 

To  the  Evening  Star Leyden G.  Dodgson 275 

*  A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas C.  C.Moore F.  0.  C.  Darlcr 288 

To  the  Evening  Primrose B.  Barton Ditto 291 

Rhinefield, — A  Lodge  in  the  New  Forest. Sotheby W.  Harvey 293 

*  Song  of  Marion's  Men Bryant F.  0.  C.  Darley 295 

*  Green  River Ditto ./.  H.  Hill 298 

*  The  Hunter  of  the  Prairies Ditto F.  0.  C.  Darley 304 

*The  Gladness  of  Nature Ditto J.H.Hill 307 

*  Bronx Drake ./  W.  Casilear 311 

«  Red  Jacket Halleck F.  0.  C.  Darley 314 

*  Connecticut Ditto Ditto 318 

The  Vicar Pracd J.  Gilbert 327 

The  Elm  Tree:— The  Avenue T.Hood G.  Dodgson 333 

The  Woodman Ditto Ditto 339 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS.  xr 

SUBJECt.  AHTHOK.  DRAWN    BY  PAGE 

Afar  in  the  Desert Pringle W.  Harvey ;j47 

The  Watek-Nympu  appearing  to  the  Shep- 
herd  Landor F.R.  Piekersgill, AM. A.  351 

The  Lilies  of  the  Field Kcblc B.  Poster 356 

The  Hebrew  Wedding Milman E.  H.  CorboiUd 362 

An  Italian  Garden Leigh  Hunt G.  Dodgson 366 

The  Alhambra Croly II''.  Harvey 369 

The  Three  Sons.^ Moultrie /.  Gilbert 375 

The  Spanish  Armada JIacaulay Ditto 379 

Artevelde  in  Ghent ..Taylor J.  B.  Clayton 392 

The  Spilt  Pearls Trench W.  Harvey 404 

*  Snow — a  Winter  Sketch Hoyt P.  0.  C.  Darley 411 

*  Blessings  on  Children Simms Pitto 416 

Hymn  to  the  Sea Alford E.  Duncan 424 

The  May  Queen Tennyson T.  Dalzicl 432 

New-year's  Eve Ditto Ditto 434 

Conclusion Ditto Ditto 436 

Tailpiece Ditto Ditto 438 

*  Morte  d'Artiiur: — 

*  ExcALiBUR Ditto D.  AlacUse 439 

*  Death  Scene Ditto Ditto 447 

*  Edward  Gray Ditto ./.  E.  JMillai^ 449 

*The  Goose Ditto W.  Mulrcady 401 

*  Break,  Break,  Break Ditto C.  Stanjicld 454 

*  Maud  Muller Wlutticr..., P.  0.  C.  Darley 459 

«  The  Raven Poe Ditto 466 

*  Hymn  to  the  Night Loitgfclloic J.  Gilbert 471 

*  Resignation Ditto Ditto 473 

*  King  Witlaf's  Drinking-Horn  : — 

*  The  Carouse Ditto Ditto 476 

*  Monk  Reading Ditto Ditto 477 

*  Excelsior Ditto P.  0.  C.  Darley 479 

*  West  Point Tuckerman ,/.  W.  Casilcar 482 

*  The  Last  Leaf Holmes P.  O.  C.  Darley 485 

*  On  lending  a  Punch-Bowi Ditto Ditto 488 

*  A  Forest  Nook Street ./.  //.  ///// 491 

Two  in  the  Campagna P.  Browning -...E.  A.  Goodall 495 

Wine  of  Cyprus E.  B.  Browning..!.  R.  Clayton 499 

The  Three  Fishers Kingsley T.  Dalziel 505 

The  Sack  of  Baltimore Dans .famen  Goehnn 514 

EfA: — The  Maiden's  IIomi: Bulwer  Lytton...J.  Gilbert 517 

The  Stranger  Suitor Ditto T.  Dalziel 520 

The  Return Ditto Ditto 523 

The  History  of  a  Lifk Procter D.  Edieardx 526 


xvi  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

SUBJECT.                                                                                 AUTHOR.                               DRiWN   BY  PAGE 

Within  anu  Without Ditto James  Godwin 528 

])ATTLE  Scenes Aiherstonc E.  H.  Corbould 630 

lllCIIAED  BURNELL  : 

Young  Burnell  and  Alice Murij  How'itt James  Godwin 534 

The  Marriage  of  Alice Ditto Ditto 540 

Bur.NELL    AND     AlICE     IN     THE    TeMPLE 

Gardens Ditto Ditto 546 

The  Banks  of  a  Riveu A.Smith B.  Foster 553 

Pictures Ditto Ditto 555 

A  Summer  Night Bailey Ditto 557 

The  Appeal  and  the  Reproof; Knowhs /.  Tenniel 560 

Our  Wee  White  Rose..! Masscy ,/.  R.  Clayton^. 565 

That  Merry,  Merry  May Ditto D.  Edwards 567 

Autumnal  Sonnet Allingham G.  Dodgson  570 

Youth  and  Sorrow Mackay E.  H.  Coriouh) 573 

The  Hope  of  the  Resurrection Brown Ditto 575 

*The  Singing  Le.wes f.  R.  Lowell ./  //.  Hdl 584 

*  The  Wayside  Spring Read Ditto 596 

*  Nothing  to  Wear: — 

*  The  L.vdy W.  A.  Butler... A.  Iloppin 599 

*  The  Beggar Ditto Ditto • 609 

*  St.  Christopher W.  D.  Hoioells Gl 3 

*  The  Deumjier-Boy's  Funeral T.  C.  R.  Dorr . .  .'iol.  Eytimje,  Jr C20 

*  Resigned C.G.  Halpine.  .Ditto 631 

*  A  Dog's  Day  Ended  : —  .... 

*  Idle  and  Dreaming E.  L.  Beers Ditto 636 

*  The  Graves Ditto Ditto 638 

*  A  Dre.vji  of  Fairies: — 

*  Helen  Sitting  on  the  Grass S.  S.  Conavt . . .  Ditto 6,")2 

*  A  Thousand  Merry  Sprites Ditto Ditto 657 

'■■'  Dolores  : — 

*  Fishers  in  their  Boats A.  C.  Ketclmm.. Charles  Parsons 668 

*  The  Stranded  Ship Ditto Ditto 672 


BEATTIE. 


THE  POET  IN  YOUTH. 


Lo !    where  the  stripling,  wn-apt  in  wonder,  roves 
Beneath  the  precipice  o'erhung  with  i)ine, 

I 


THE  POET  IN  YOUTH. 

And  sees  on  liigh,  amidst  th'  encircling  groves. 
From  cliif  to  cliff  the  foaming  torrents  shine ; 
While  waters,  woods,  and  winds  in  concert  join, 
And  Echo  swells  the  chorus  to  the  skies. 
Would  Edwin  this  majestic  scene  resign 
For  aught  the  huntsman's  puny  craft  supplies? 
Ah!  no;  he  better  knows  great  Nature's  charms  to  prize. 

And  oft  he  trac'd  the  uplands,  to  survey, 
When  o'er  the  sky  ad  vane' d  the  kindling  dawn. 
The  crimson  cloud,  blue  main,  and  mountain  grey. 
And  lake,  dim  gleaming  on  the  smoky  lawn : 
Far  to  the  West  the  long,  long  vale  withdrawn, 
AVhere  twilight  loves  to  linger  for  awhile  ; 
And  now  he  faintly  kens  the  bounding  fawn. 
And  villager  abroad  at  early  toil, 
But.  lo !   the  sun  appears !  and  heaven,  earth,  ocean  smile. 

And  oft  the  cruggy  cliff  he  lov'd  to  climb. 
When  all  in  mist  the  world  below  was  lost. 
What  dreadful  pleasure !   there  to  stand  sublime. 
Like  shipwreck'd  mariner  o]i  desert  coast, 
And  view  th'  enormous  waste  of  vapour,  toss'd 
In  billows,  lengthening  to  th'  horizon  round, 
Now  scoop'd  in  gulfs,  with  mountains  now  emboss'd ! 
And  hear  the  voice  of  mirth  and  song  rebound. 
Flocks,  herds,  and  waterfalls,  along  the  hoar  profound ! 

In  truth,  he  was  a  strange  and  wayward  wight, 
Fond  of  each  gentle  and  each  dreadful  scene. 
In  darkness  and  in  storm  he  found  delight ; 
Nor  less,  than  when  on  ocean-wave  serene 
The  southern  sun  diffus'd  his  dazzling  sheen. 
E'en  sad  vicissitude  amus'd  his  soul ; 
And  if  a  sigh  would  sometimes  intervene. 
And  down  his  cheek  a  tear  of  pity  roll, 
A  sigh,  a  tear  so  sweet  he  Avish'd  not  to  control. 

2 


BEATTIE. 

See,  in  the  rear  of  the  warm  sunny  shower 
The  visionary  boy  from  shelter  fly ; 
For  now  the  storm  of  summer  rain  is  o'er, 
And  cool,  and  fresh,  and  fragrant  is  the  sky. 
And,  lo!  in  the  dark  East,  expanded  high. 
The  rainbow  brightens  to  the  setting  sun ! 
Fond  fool,  that  deem'st  the  streaming  gloiy  nigh ; 
How  vain  the  chase  thine  ardour  has  begun ! 
'Tis  fled  afar,  ere  half  thy  purpos'd  race  be  run. 

When  the  long-sounding  curfew  from  afar 
Loaded  with  loud  lament  the  lonely  gale, 
Young  Edwin,  lighted  by  the  evening  star. 
Lingering  and  listening,  wander'd  do\^•n  the  vale. 
There  would  he  dream  of  graves  and  corses  pale. 
And  ghosts  that  to  the  charnel-dungeon  throng, 
Ajid  drag  a  length  of  clanking  chain,  and  wail. 
Till  silenc'd  by  the  owl's  terrific  song. 
Or  blast  that  shrieks  by  fits  the  shuddering  aisles  along. 

Or,  when  the  setting  moon,  in  crimson  dyed. 
Hung  o'er  the  dark  and  melancholy  deep. 
To  havmted  streams,  remote  from  man,  he  hied, 
Where  fays  of  yore  their  revels  wont  to  keep ; 
And  there  let  Fancy  rove  at  large,  till  sleep 
A  vision  brought  to  his  entranced  sight. 
And  first,  a  wildly  murmuring  wind  'gan  creep 
Shrill  to  his  ringing  ear ;  then  tapers  bright. 
With  instantaneous  gleam,  illum'd  the  vault  of  night. 

Anon  in  view  a  portal's  blazon'd  arch 
Arose ;   the  trumpet  bids  the  valves  unfold  ; 
And  forth  an  host  of  little  warriors  march. 
Grasping  the  diamond  lance  and  targe  of  gold. 
Their  look  was  gentle,  their  demeanour  bold. 
And  green  their  helms,  and  green  their  silk  attire  ; 
And  here  and  there,  right  venerably  old, 

3 


MORNING  LANDSCAPE. 

The  long-rob' cl  minstrels  wake  the  warbling  wire, 
And  some  with  mellow  breath  the  martial  pipe  uispire. 

With  merriment,  and  song,  and  timbrels  clear, 
A  troop  of  dames  from  myrtle  bowers  advance  ; 
The  little  warriors  doff  the  targe  and  spear, 
And  loud  enlivening  strains  provoke  the  dance. 
They  meet,  they  dart  away,  they  wheel  askance; 
To  right,  to  left,  they  thrid  the  flying  maze  ; 
Now  bound  aloft  with  vigorous  spring,  then  glance 
Rapid  along :  with  many-colour'd  rays 
Of  tapers,  gems,  and  gold,  the  echoing  forests  blaze.- 


MORNING  LANDSCAPE. 


But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell? 
The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain  side  ; 
The  lowing  herd  ;   the  sheepf old's  simple  bell ; 
The  pipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley ;   echoing  far  and  M'ide, 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above; 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean  tide; 
The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet's  lay  of  love, 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove. 

The  cottage-curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark ; 
Crown'd  with  her  pail,  the   trippmg  milkmaid  sings ; 
The  whistling  ploughman  stalks  afield ;   and,  hark ! 
DowTi  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  waggon  rings ; 
Tlirough  rustling  corn  the  hare  astonish'd  springs ; 

4. 


BEATTIE. 

Slow  tolls  the  village  clock  the  drowsy  hour ; 
The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings; 
Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequester' d  bower, 
And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tower. 


CALM  AND  STORM. 


Oft  when  the  winter  storm  had  ceas'd  to  rave, 
He  roam'd  the  snowy  waste  at  even,  to  view 
The  cloud  stupendous,  from  th'  Atlantic  Avave 
High  towering,  sail  along  th'  horizon  blue : 
Where,  'midst  the  changeful  scenery  ever  new, 
Fancy  a  thousand  wondrous  forms  descries. 
More  wildly  great  than  ever  pencil  drew — 
Rocks,  torrents,  gulfs,  and  shapes  of  giant  size, 
And  glitt'ring  cliffs  on  cliiFs,  and  fiery  ramparts  rise 

Thence  musing  onward  to  the  sounding  shore, 
The  lone  enthusiast  oft  would  take  his  way, 
Listening,  with  pleasing  dread,  to  the  deep  roar 
Of  the  wide-weltering  waves.     In  black  array 
When  sulphurous  clouds  roll'd  on  th'  autumnal  day  ; 
E'en  then  he  hasten'd  from  the  haunt  of  man, 
Along  the  treml)ling  wilderness  to  stray, 
Wliat  time  the  lightning's  fierce  career  began. 
And  o'er  heaven's  rending  arch  the  rattling  thunder  ran- 


A  A^ILLEY  AMONG  THE  HILLS. 


Thither  he  hied,  enamour' d  of  the  scene ; 
For  rocks  on  rocks  pil'd,  as  by  magic  spell, 
Here  scorch'd  with  lightning,  there  with  ivy  gi-een, 
Fenc'd  from  the  north  and  cast  this  savage  dell. 
Southward  a  mountain  rose  Avith  easy  swell, 
Whose  long,  long  groves  eternal  murmur  made : 
And  toAvard  the  western  sun  a  streamlet  fell, 
Where,  through  the  cliffs,  the  eye  remote  survey'd 
Blue  hills,  and  glittering  waves,  and  skies  in  gold  array'd. 

6 


BEATTIE. 

Along  this  narrow  valley  you  might  see 
The  wild  deer  sporting  on  the  level  ground, 
And,  here  and  there,  a  t^olitary  tree, 
Or  mossy  stone,  or  rock  with  woodbine  crown'd. 
Oft  did  the  cliffs  reverberate  the  sound 
Of  parted  fragments  tumbling  from  on  high ; 
And  from  the  summit  of  tha,t  craggy  mound 
The  piercmg  eagle  oft  was  heard  to  cry, 
Or,  on  resounding  wings,  to  shoot  athwart  the  sky. 

One  cultivated  spot  there  was,  that  spread 
Its  flowery  bosom  to  the  noonday  beam. 
Where  many  a  rosebud  rears  its  blushing  head, 
And  herbs  for  food  with  future  plenty  teem. 
Sooth'd  by  the  lulling  sound  of  grove  and  stream. 
Romantic  visions  swarm  on  Edwin's  soul : 
He  minded  not  the  sun's  last  trembling  gleam. 
Nor  heard  from  far  the  twilight  curfew  toll ; 
When  slowly  on  his  ear  these  moving  accents  stole: 

•'  Hail,  awful  scenes,  that  calm  the  troubled  breast, 
And  woo  the  weary  to  profound  repose ! 
Can  passion's  wildest  uproar  lay  to  rest. 
And  whisper  comfort  to  the  man  of  woes  ? 
Here  Innocence  may  Avander,  safe  from  foes. 
And  Contemplation  soar  on  seraph  wings. 
O  Solitude!   the  man  who  thee  foregoes, 
When  lucre  lures  him,  or  ambition  stings, 

Shall  never  know  the  source  whence  real  grandeur  springs." 


RETIREMENT. 


When  in  the  crimson  cloud  of  even, 

The  lingering  light  decays, 
And  Plesper  on  the  front  of  heaven 

His  glittering  gem  displays ; 
Deep  in  the  silent  vale,  unseen. 

Beside  a  lulling  stream, 
A  pensive  youth,  of  placid  mien, 

Indulsr'd  this   tender  tlieme : 


Ye  cliifs,  in  hoary  grandeur  pil'd, 

High  o'er  the  glimmering  dale ; 
Ye  woods,  along  whose  windings  wild 

Murmurs  the  solemn  gale : 
Where  ISIelancholy  strays  forlorn, 

And  Woe  retires  to  weep. 
What  time  the  wan  moon's  yellow  horn 

Gleams  on  the  western  deep : 
8 


BEATTIE. 

"To  you,  ye  wastes,  whose  artless  charms 

Ne'er  drew  Ambition's  eye, 
Scap'd  a  tumultuous  woi-ld's  alarms, 

To  your  retreats  I  fly. 
Deep  in  your  most  sequester'd  bower 

Let  me  at  last  recline, 
^\Tiere  Solitude,  mild,  modest  Power, 

Leans  on  her  ivied  shrine. 


"How  shall  I  woo  thee,  matchless  Fair? 

Thy  heavenly  smile  how  win  ? 
Thy  smile  that  smooths  the  brow  of  Care, 

And  stills  the  storm  within  ? 
O,  wilt  thou  to  thy  favourite  grove 

Thine  ardent  votary  bring. 
And  bless  his  hours,  and  bid  them  move 

Serene,  on  silent  wing? 

"  Oft  let  Remembrance  sooth  his  mmd 

With  dreams  of  former  days. 
When,  in  the  lap  of  Peace  reclin'd. 

He  fram'd  his  infant  lays ; 
When  Fancy  rov'd  at  large,  nor  Care 

Nor  cold  Distrust  alarm'd, 
Nor  En\y  with  malignant  glare 

His  simple  youth  had  harm'd. 

"'Twas  then,  O  Solitude!    to  thee 
His  early  vows  were  paid. 
From  heart  sincere,  and  warm,  and  free, 

Devoted  to  the  shade. 
Ah !    why  did  Fate  his  steps  decoy 

In  stormy  paths  to  roam, 
Remote  fnmi  all  congenial  joy? — 
O,  lake   the  AVanderer  home! 
0 


RETIREMENT. 

"Thy  shades,  thy  silence,  now  be  mine, 

Thy  charms  my  only  theme; 
My  haunt  the  hollow  clifl",  whose  pine 

Waves  o'ei'  the  gloomy  stream ; — 
Whence  the  scar'd  owl  on  pinions  gray 

Breaks  from  the  rustling  boughs. 
And  down  the  lone  vale  sails  away 

To  more  profound  repose. 

"  O,  while  to  thee  the  woodland  pours 

Its  wildly  wai'bling  song, 
And  balmy,  from  the  bank  of  flowers, 

The  zephyr  breathes  along ; 
Let  no  rude  sound  invade  from  far. 

No  vagrant  foot  be  nigh, 
No  ray  from  Grandeur's  gilded  car 

Flash  on  the  startled  eye. 

"But  if  some  pilgrim  through  the  glade 

Thy  hallow'd  bowers  exjilore, 
O  guard  from  harm  his  hoary  head. 

And  listen  to  his  lore ; 
For  he  of  joys  divine  shall  tell, 

That  wean  from  earthly  woe, 
And  triumph  o'er  the  mighty  spell 

That  chains  his  heart  below. 

"For  me,  no  more  the  path  invites 
Ambition  loves  to  tread ; 
No  more  I  climb  those  toilsome  heights, 

By  guileful  Hope  misled: 
Leaps  my  fond  fluttering  heart  no  mon; 

To  Mirth's  enlivening  strain ; 
For  present  pleasure  soon  is  o'er, 
And  all  the  past  is  vain." 
10 


COWPER. 


YARDLEY    OAK. 


Survivor  sole,  and  hardly  such,  of  all 
That  once  liv'd  here,  thy  brethren,  at  my  birth, 

11 


YARDLEY  OAK. 

(Since  which  I  number  threescore  winters  past,) 
A  shatter'd  vet'ran,  hollow-trunk'd  perhaps, 
As  now,  and  with  excoriate  forks  deform, 
Eelics  of  ages !    could  a  mind,  imbued 
With  truth  from  Heaven,  created  thing  adore, 
I  might  with  reverence  kneel,  and  worship  thee. 

It  seems  idolatry  with  some  excuse, 
When  our  forefather  Druids  in  their  oaks 
Imagin'd  sanctity.     The  conscience,  yet 
Unpuritied  by  an  authentic  act 
Of  amnesty,  the  meed  of  blood  divine, 
Lov'd  not  the  light,  but,  gloomy,  into  gloom 
Of  thickest  shades,  like  Adam  after  taste 
Of  fruit  proscribed,  as  to  a  refuge,  fled. 

Thou  wast  a  bauble  once — a  cup  and  ball, 
Which  babes  might  play  with ;    and  the  thievish  jay. 
Seeking  her  food,  with  ease  might  have  purloin' d 
The  auburn  nut  tliat  held  thee,  swallowing  down 
Thy  yet  close-folded  latitude  of  boughs 
And  all  thine  embryo  vastness  at  a  gulp. 
But  Fate  thy  growth  decreed ;    autumnal  rains 
Beneath  thy  parent  tree  mellow'd  the  soil 
Design' d  thy  cradle ;    and  a  skipping  deer. 
With  pointed  hoof  dibbling  the  glebe,  prepar'd 
The  soft  receptacle,  in  which,  secure, 
Thy  rudiments  should  sleep  the  winter  through. 

So  Fancy  dreams.     Disprove  it,  if  ye  can. 
Ye  reas'ners  broad  awake,  Avhose  busy  search 
Of  argument,  employ' d  too  oft  amiss, 
Sifts  half  the  pleasures  of  short  life  away! 

Thou  fell'st  mature  ;    and  in  the  loamy  clod, 
Swelling  with  vegetative  force  instinct. 
Did  burst  thine  egg,  as  theirs  the  fabled  TA\ans, 

12 


COWPER. 

Now  stars  ;    two  lobes,  protruding,  pair'cl  exact ; 
A  leaf  succeeded,  and  another  leaf, 
And,  all  the  elements  thy  puny  growth 
Fost'ring  propitious,  thou  becam'st  a  twig. 

Who  liv'd,  Avhen  thou  wast  such?     O  could'st  thou  speak, 
As  in  Dodona  once  thy  kindred  trees 
Oracular,  I  would  not  curious  ask 
The  future,  best  unknown,  but  at  thy  mouth, 
Inquisitive,  the  less  ambiguous  past. 

By  thee  I  might  correct,  erroneous  oft. 
The  clock  of  history,  facts  and  events 
Timing  more  punctual,  unrecorded  facts 
Recovering,  and  misstated  setting  right, — 
Desp'rate  attempt,  till  ti'ees  shall  speak  again! 

Time  made  thee  what  thou  wasf,  king  of  the  woods  ; 
And  Time  hath  made  thee  what  thou  art — a  cave 
For  owls  to  roost  in.     Once  thy  spreading  boughs 
O'erhung  the  champaign  ;    and  the  num'rous  flocks 
That  graz'd  it  stood  beneath  that  ample  cope 
Uncrowdetl,  yet  safe-shelter'd  from  the  storm. 
No  flock  frequents  thee  now.     Thou  hast  outliv'd 
Thy  popularity,  and  art  become 
(Unless  verse  rescue  thee  awhile)  a  thing 
Forgotten,  as  the  foliage  of  thy  youth. 

^MiUe  thus  through  all  the  stages  thou  hast  push'd 
Of  treeship — first  a  seedling,  hid  in  gi*ass  ; 
Then  twig ;    then  sapling ;    and,  as  cent'ry  rolfd 
Slow  after  century,  a  giant-bulk 
Of  girth  enormous,  with  moss-cushion'd  root 
Upheav'd  above  the  soil,  and  sides  emboss'd 
With  prominent  wens  globose — till  at  the  last 
Tlic  rottenness,  Avliich  Time  is  charged  t'  inflict 
On  other  mighty  ones,  found  also  thee. 

13 


YARDLEY  OAK. 

What  exhibitions  various  hath  the  world 
Witness' d  of  mutabiUty,  in  all 
That  we  account  most  durable  below ! 
Change  is  the  diet  on  which  all  subsist, 
Created  changeable,  and  change  at  last 
Destroys  them.      Skies  uncertain  now  the  heat 
Transmitting  cloudless,  and  the  solar  beam 
Now  quenching  in  a  boundless  sea  of  clouds — 
Calm  and  alternate  storm,  moisture  and  drought, 
Invigorate  by  turns  the  springs  of  life 
In  all  that  live,  plant,  animal,  and  man, 
And  in  conclusion  mar  them.     Nature's  threads, 
Fine  passing  thought  e'en  in  her  coarsest  works, 
Delight  in  agitation,  yet  sustain 
The  foi'ce  that  agitates,  not  unimpair'd  ; 
But,   worn  by  frequent  impulse,  to  the  cause 
Of  their  best  tone  their  dissolution  owe. 

Thought  cannot  spend  itself,  comparing  still 
The  great  and  little  of  thy  lot,  thy  growth 
From  almost  nullity  into  a  state 
Of  matchless  grandeur,  and  declension  thence, 
Slow,  into  such  magnificent  decay. 
Time  was,  when,  settling  on  thy  leaf,  a  fly 
Could  shake  thee  to  thy  root — and  time  has  been 
AVlien  tempests  could  not.     At  thy  firmest  age 
Thou  hadst  within  thy  bole  solid  contents, 
That  might  have  ribb'd  the  sides  and  plank'd  the  deck 
Of  some  flagg'd  admiral ;    and  tortuous  ai'ms, 
The  shipwright's  darling  treasure,  didst  present 
To  the  four-quarter'd  winds,  robust  and  bold, 
Warp'd  into  tough  knee-timber,  many  a  load! 
But  the  axe  spar'd  thee.     In  those  thriftier  days 
Oaks  fell  not,  hewn  by  thousands  to  sujiply 
The  bottomless  demands  of  contest,  wag'd 
For  senatorial  honours.     Thus  to  Time 
The  task  was  left  to  whittle  thee  away 

U 


COWPER. 

With  his  sly  scythe,  whose  ever-nibbling  edge 
Noiseless,  an  atom,  and  an  atom  more, 
Disjoining  from  the  rest,  has,  unobserv'd, 
Achiev'd  a  labour  which  had  far  and  wide. 
By  man  perform'd,  made  all  the  forest  rmg. 

Embowell'd  now,  and  of  thy  ancient  self 
Possessing  nought  but  the  scoop'd  rind,  that  seems 
A  huge  throat  calling  to  the  clouds  for  drink. 
Which  it  would  give  in  rivulets  to  thy  root, 
Thou  temptest  none,  but  rather  much  forbidd'st 
The  feller's  toil,  which  thou  could' st  ill  requite. 
Yet  is  thy  root  sincere,  sound  as  the  rock, 
A  quarry  of  stout  spurs  and  knotted  fangs. 
Which,  crook'd  into  a  thousand  whimsies,  clasp 
The  stubborn  soil,  and  hold  thee  still  erect. 

So  stands  a  kingdom  whose  foundation  yet 
Fails  not,  in  virtue  and  in  wisdom  laid. 
Though  all  the  superstructure,  by  the  tooth 
Pulverized  of  venality,  a  shell 
Stands  now,  and  semblance  only  of  itself! 


Thine  arms  have  left  thee.      Winds  have  rent  them  off 
Ijong  since,  and  rovers  of  the  forest  wild. 
With  bow  and  shaft,  have  burnt  them.      Some  have  left 
A  si)linter'd  stump,  bleach'd  to  a  snowy  Avhite  ; 
And  some,  memorinl   none!  where  once  they  grew. 
r>ut  life  still  lingers  in   thee,  and  puts  forth 
Proof  not  contemptible  of  what  she  can, 
P^ven  where  death  predominates.      The  Spring 
Finds  tlicc,  not  less  alive  to  her  sweet  foi-ce 
Than  yonder  upstarts  of  the  neighb'ring  wood. 
So  much  thy  juniors,  Avho  their  birth  received 
Hall'  a  millennium  since  the  date  of  thine. 

15 


YARDLEY  OAK. 

But  since,  although  well  qualified  by  age 
To  teach,  no  spirit  dwells  in  thee,  nor  voice 
May  be  expected  from  thee,  seated  here     • 
On  thy  distorted  root,  with  hearers  none. 
Or  prompter,  save  the  scene,  I  will  perform 
Myself  the  oracle,  and  will  discourse 
In  my  own  ear  such  matter  as  I  may. 

One  man  alone,  the  father  of  us  all. 
Drew  not  his  life  from  woman  ;    never  gaz'd. 
With  mute  unconsciousness  of  what  he  saw, 
On  all  around  him  ;    learn'd  not  by  degrees, 
Nor  ow'd  articulation  to  his  ear ; 
But,  moulded  by  his  Maker  into  man. 
At  once  upstood  intelligent,  survey'd 
All  creatures,  with  precision  understood 
Their  purport,  uses,  properties,  assign'd 
To  each  his  name  significant,  and,  fill'd 
With  love  and  wisdom,  render'd  back  to  Heav'n 
In  praise  harmonious  the  first  air  he  drew. 
He  was  excus'd  the  penalties  of  dull 
jVIinority :    no  tutor  charg'd  his  hand 
With  the  tliought-tracing  quill,  or  task'd  his  mind 
"With  problems.     History,  not  wanted  yet, 
Lean'd  on  her  elbow,  watching  Time,  whose  course, 
Eventful,  should  supply  her  with  a  thepie. 


^^ 


16 


LINES  TO  MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 


O  THAT  tlio.*e  lips  liiul  language  !      Life  lias  pass'd 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee   last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  oa\ti  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solac'd  me  ; 
Voice  oidy  fails,  elsi'  how  distinct  they  say, 
"  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all   thy  fears  away  !"' 

17  E 


LINES  TO  MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 

The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  thfit  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it,)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  Avelcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  bidst  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  ; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief. 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother !    when  I  learn'd  that  thou  wast  dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 
Hover'd  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son. 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gav'st  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss  ; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile  ! — it  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  toll'd  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away. 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu! 
But  was  it  such?     It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone, 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 
The  parting  words  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  ! 
Thy  maidens,  griev'd  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return  ; 
What  ardently  I  wish'd,  I  long  believ'd, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceiv'd  ; 
By  expectation  every  day  beguil'd. 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went. 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 

18 


COWPER. 

I  learn' d  at  last  submission  to  my  lot, 

But,  though  I  less  deplor'd  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

^Miere  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nurs'ry  floor ; 
And  where  the  gard'ner  Kobin,  day  by  day, 
Di-ew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way. 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapp'd 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capp'd, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  call'd  the  pastoral  house  our  (jwn. 
Short-liv'd  possession  !   but  the  record  fair, 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  eflfac'd 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  trac'd. 
Thy  nightl}^  visits  to  my  chamber  made. 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid ; — 
All  this,  and,  more  endearing  still  than  all, 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 
Ne'er  roughen'd  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks, 
That  humour  interpos'd  too  often  makes ; 
All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page. 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 
Not  scorn'd  in  heaven,  though  little  notic'd  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  revers'd,  restore  the  hours, 
Wlien,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  prick'd  them  into  paper  with  a  pin. 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Would'st  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head,  and  smUe.) 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  ajipcar, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  Avould  I  Avish  them  here? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart ; — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desir  d,  perhaps  I  might. — 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 

19 


LINES  TO  MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 

So  little  to  be  lov'd,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weather' d,  and  the  ocean  cross'd) 
vShoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven'd  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay ; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !    hast  reach'd  the  shore, 
"  Where  tempests  never  beat,  nor  billows  roar ;" 
And  thy  lov'd  consort,  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life,  long  since  has  anchor'd  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distress'd, — 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-toss'd. 
Sails  ripp'd,  seams  op'ning  wide,  and  compass  lost, 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet  O  the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he ! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthron'd,  and  rulers  of  the  earth  ; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise, — 
The  son  of  parents  pass'd  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell ! — Time  unrevok'd  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wish'd  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  t'  have  liv'd  my  childhood  o'er  again ; 
To  have  renew'd  the  joys  that  once  were  mine 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 
And  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  remov'd,  thy  pow'r  to  soothe  me  left. 

20 


HAYLEY. 


THE  VISION  OF  SERENA. 


"  "Well  may'st  thou  beiul  o'er  this  congenial  sphere ; 
For  Sensibility  is  Sovereign  here. 
Thou  seest  her  train  of  sprightly  damsels  sport, 
Where  the  soft  spirit  holds  her  rural  court ; 
But  fix  thine  eye  attentive  to  the  plain, 
And  mark  the  varying  Avonders  of  her  reigii." 
As  thus  she  spoke,  she  pois'd  her  airy  seat 
High  o'er  a  plain  exhaling  every  sweet; 
For  round  its  precinct,s  all  the  flowers  that  blooui 
Fill'd  the  delicious  air  with  rich  perfume ; 
And  in  the  midst  a  verdant  throne  appear'd, 

21 


THE  VISION  OF  SERENA. 

In  simplest  form  by  graceful  fancy  rear'd, 

And  deck'd  Avith  flowers  ;  not  such  whose  flauntuig  dyes 

Strike  with  the  strongest  tint  our  dazzl'd  eyes ; 

But  those  wild  herbs  that  tend'rest  libres  bear, 

And  shun  th'  approaches  of  a  damper  air. 

Here  stood  the  lovely  ruler  of  the  scene, 

And  beauty,  more  than  pomp,  announc'd  The  Queen. 

The  bending  snowdrop  and  the  briar-rose, 

The  simple  circle  of  her  crown  compose ; 

Roses  of  every  hue  her  robe  adorn, 

Except  th'  insipid  rose  without  a  thorn. 

Of  that  enchantino;  age  her  figure  seems, 

When  smiling  nature  Avith  the  vital  beams 

Of  vivid  youth,  and  Pleasure's  purple  flame, 

Gilds  her  accomplish'd  work,  the  female  frame, 

With  rich  luxuriance  tender,  sweetly  wild. 

And  just  between  the  woman  and  the  child. 

Her  fair  left  arm  around  a  vase  she  flings, 

From  which  the  tender  plant  mimosa  springs ; 

Towards  its  leaves,  o'er  which  she  fondly  bends, 

The  youthful  fair  her  vacant  hand  extends 

With  gentle  motion,  anxious  to  survey 

How  far  the  feeling  fibres  own  her  sway ; 

The  leaves,  as  conscious  of  their  Queen's  command, 

Successive  fall  at  her  approaching  hand ; 

While  her  soft  breast  with  pity  seems  to  pant, 

And  shrinks  at  every  shrinking  of  the  plant. 

Around  their  sovereign,  on  the  verdant  ground, 
Sweet  airy  forms  in  mystic  measures  bound. 
Unnumber'd  damsels  different  charms  display. 
Pensive  with  bliss,  or  in  their  pleasures  gay. 
But,  the  briglit  triumphs  of  their  joy  to  check. 
In  the  clear  air  there  hangs  a  dusky  speck ; 
It  swells — it  spreads — and  rapid,  as  it  grows. 
O'er  the  gay  scene  a  chilling  shadow  throws. 
The  soft  Serena,  who  beheld  its  flight. 
Suspects  no  evil  from  a  cloud  so  light ; 

22 


HAYLEY. 

But,  ah !    too  soon,  with  pity's  tender  pain, 
She  saw  its  dire  effect  o'er  all  the  plain : 
Sudden  IVoin  thence  the  sounds  of  anguish  flow. 
And  joy's  sweet  carols  end  in  shrieks  of  woe. 
Here  gloomy  Terror,  with  a  shadowy  rope, 
Seems,  like  a  Turkish  mute,  to  strangle  Hope 
But  pangs  more  cruel,  more  intensely  keen, 
"Wound  and  distract  their  s}^iipathetic  Queen. 
With  fruitless  tears  she  o'er  their  misery  bends; 
From  her  sweet  brow  the  thorny  rose  she  rends. 
And,  bow'd  by  griefs  insufferable  weight,       ^ 
Frantic  she  curses  her  immortal  state : 
The  soft  Serena,  as  this  curse  she  hears. 
Feels  her  bright  eye  suffus'd  A^ith  kindred  tears. 

The  guardian  Power  survey'd  her  lovely  grief, 
And  spoke  in  gentle  terms  of  mild  relief: 
"For  this  soft  tribe  they  heaviest  fear  dismiss, 
And  know  their  pains  ai-e  transient  as  their  bliss: 
Eapture  and  agony,  in  Nature's  loom, 
Have  form'd  the  changing  tissue  of  their  doom; 
Both  interwoven  with  so  nice  an  art. 
No  power  can  tear  the  twisted  threads  apart ; 
Yet  happier  these,  to  Nature's  heart  more  dear, 
Than  the  dull  offspring  in   the  torpid  sphere, 
Where  her  warm  wishes,  and  affections  kind, 
Lose  their  bright  current  in  the  stagnant  mind. 
Here  gi-ief  and  joy  so  suddenly  imite, 
That  anguish  serves  to  sublimate  deliirht." 

She  spoke  ;    and,  ere  Serena  could  reply, 
The  vapour  vanish'd  from  the  lucid  sky, 
The  njnnphs  revive,  the  sliadowy  fiends  are  fled, 
The  new-born  floAvers  a  richer  fragrance  shed. — 
While  on  the  lovely  Queen's  enchanting  face. 
Departed  sorrow's  faint  and  fainter  trace 
Gave  to  each  touching  charm  a  mox-e  attractive  grace. 


23 


rs^-- 


^»-  -"'^.  ^ 
'V&  t'^" 


,(V-,>^x^  i 


'yt|^^'^0//:'^ 


HURDIS. 


RURAL  SOUNDS. 


Be  nothing  heard, 
Save  the  far-distant  murmur  of  the  deep — 

24 


HURDIS. 

Or  the  near  grasshopper's  incessant  note, 
That  snug  beneath  the  wall  in  comfort  sits, 
And  chu'ping  imitates  the  silvery  chink 
Of  wages  told  into  the  ploughman's  palm — 
Or  gentle  curlew  bidding  kind  good  night 
To  the  spent  villager,  or  ere  his  hand 
The  cottage  taper  quench — or  grazing  ox 
His  dewy  supper  from  the  savoury  herb 
Audibly  gathering — or  cheerful  hind 
From  the  lov'd  harvest  feast  returning  home, 
Whistling  at  intervals  some  rustic  air. 

Such  rural  sounds, 
If  haply  notic'd  by  the  musing  mind, 
Sweet  interruption  yield,  and  thrice  improva 
The  solemn  luxury  of  idle  thought. 
If  not  abroad  I  sit,  but  sip  at  home 
The  cheering  beverage  of  fading  eve. 
By  some  fair  hand,  or  ere  it  reach  the  lip, 
"With  mingled  flavour  tinctur'd  of  the  cane 
And -Asiatic  leaf,  let  the  mute  flock, 
As  from  the  Avindow  studious  looks  mine  eye, 
Steal  fold- ward  nibbling  o'er  the  shadowy  down  — 
Let  the  reluctant  milch-kine  of  the  farm 
Wend  slowly  from  the  pasture  to  the  pail. 
Let  the  glad  ox,  unyok'd,  make  haste  to  field. 
And  the  stout  wain-horse,  of  encumbrance  stript, 
Shake  his  enormous  limbs  with  blund'ring  speed, 
Eager  to  gratify  his  famish'd  lip 
With  taste  of  herbage  and  the  meadow-brook. 


25 


CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 


THE  SWALLOW. 


The  gorse  is  yellow  on  the  heath, 

The  banks  with  speedwell  flowers  are  gay, 
The  oaks  are  bndding ;  and  beneath, 
The  ha^vthorn  soon  will  ])ear  the  WTeatli, 
The  silver  wreath  of  INIay. 
26 


CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 

The  welcome  guest  of  settled  Spring, 
The  Swallow,  too,  is  come  at  last ; 
Just  at  sunset,  when   thrushes  smg, 
I  saw  her  dash  with  rapid  wing. 
And  hail'd  her  as  she  pass'd. 

Come,  summer  visitant,  attach 

To  my  reed-roof  your  nest  of  clay, 
And  let  my  ear  your  music  catch. 
Low  twittering  underneath  the  thatch, 
At  the  grey  dawn  of  day. 

As  fables  tell,  an  Indian  Sage, 

The  Hindustani  woods  among, 
Could  in  his  desert  hermitage, 
As  if  'twere  mark'd  in  written  page, 

Translate  the  wild  bird's  song. 

I  wish  I  did  his  power  possess, 

That  I  might  learn,  fleet  bird,  from  thee, 
What  our  vain  systems  only  guess, 
And  know  from  what  wild .  wilderness 

You  came  across  the  sea. 

I  would  a  little  while  restrain 

Your  rapid  wing,  that  I  might  hear 
Whether  on  clouds  that  bring  the  rain, 
You  sail'd  above  the  western  main, 
The  wind  your  charioteer. 

In  Afric,  does  the  sultry  gale, 

Through  spicy  bower,  and  palmy  grove, 
Bear  the  repeated  Cuckoo's  talc? 
Dwells  there  a  time,  the  Avanderhig  Kail, 

Or  llie  itinerant  Dove? 
27 


THE  SWALLOW. 

Were  you  in  Asia?     O  relate, 
If  there  your  fabled  sister's  woes 

She  seem'cl  in  sorrow  to  narrate ; 

Or  sings  she  but  to  celebrate 
Her  nuptials  with  the  rose? 

I  would  inquire  how,  journeying  long 
The  vast  and  pathless  ocean  o'er, 

You  ply  again  those  pinions  strong, 

And  come  to  build  anew  among 
The  scenes  you  left  before ; 

But  if,  as  cooler  breezes  blow, 

Prophetic  of  the  waning  year. 
You  hide,  though  none  know  when  or  how, 
In  the  cliflf's  excavated  brow, 

And  linger  torpid  here ; 

Thus  lost  to  life,  Avhat  favouring  dream 

Bids  you  to  happier  hours  awake ; 
And  tells,  that  dancing  in  the  beam. 
The  light  gnat  hovers  o'er  the  stream, 
The  May-fly  on  the  lake"? 

Or  if,  by  instinct  taught  to  know 

Approaching  dearth  of  insect  food, 
To  isles  and  willowy  aits  you  go, 
And  crowding  on  the  pliant  bough. 
Sink  in  the  dimpling  flood : 

How  learn  ye,  while  the  cold  waves  boom 

Your  deep  and  oosy  couch  above, 
The  time  when  flowers  of  promise  bloom, 
And  call  you  from  your  transient  tomb, 
To  light,  and  life,  and  love  ? 
28 


CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 

Alas!   how  little  can  be  known, 

Her  sacred  veil  where  Nature  draws ; 
Let  baffled  Science  humbly  owii, 
Her  mysteries  understood  alone 
]?y  Him  who  gives  her  laws. 


SONNET  WRITTEN  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  SPRING. 

The  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so  lately  wove, 

Each  simple  tlower,  which  she  had  nurs'd  in  dew, 
Anemones,  that  spangled  eveiy  grove, 

The  primrose  w.an,  and  harebell  mildly  blue. 
No  moi-e  shall  violets  linger  in  the  dell, 

Or  purple  orchis  variegate  the  plain, 
Till  Spring  again  shall  call  forth  every  bell. 

And  dress  with  humid  hands  her  ivTcaths  again. 

Ah,  poor  humanity!   so  frail,  so  fair, 

Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  early  day, 
Till  tjTant  passion,  and  corrosive  care. 

Bid  all  thy  fairy  colours  fade  away! 
Another  May  new  buds  and  flowers  shall  bring ; 

Ah !   why  has  happiness  no  second  spring  ? 


29 


SONNETS. 


SONNET. 


Should  the  lone  wanderer,  fainting  on  liis  way, 

Rest  for  a  moment  of  the  sultry  hours. 
And,  though  his  path  through  tliorns  and  roughness  lay, 

Pluck  the  wild  rose  or  woodbine's  gadding  flowers. 
Wearing  gay  wreaths  beneath  some  sheltering  tree, 

The  sense  of  sorrow  he  awhile  may  lose ; 
So  have  I  sought  thy  flowers,  fair  Poesy! 

So  charm'd  my  way  Avith  Friendship  and  the  JNIuse. 

But  darker  now  grows  life's  unhappy  day. 
Dark  with  new  clouds  of  evil  yet  to  come, 

Her  pencil,  sickening,  Fancy  throws  away. 
And  weary  Hope  reclines  uj)on  the  tomb. 

And  points  my  wishes  to  that  tranquil  shore. 

Where  the  pale  spectre  Care  pursues  no  more. 


SONNET  ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Sweet  poet  of  the  woods,  a  long  adieu ! 

FarcAvell,  soft  minstrel  of  the  early  year! 
Ah !  'twill  be  long  ere  thou  shalt  sing  anew. 

And  pour   thy  music  on  the  night's  dull  ear. 
Wliether  on  Spring  thy  wandering  flights  await. 

Or  whether  silent  in  our  groves  you  dwell. 
The  pensive  Muse  shall  own  thee  for  her  mate, 

And  still  protect  the  song  she  loves  so  well. 

With  cautious  step  the  love-lorn  youth  shall  glide 
Thro'  the  lone  brake  that  shades  thy  mossy  nest ;. 

And  shepherd-girls  from  eyes  profane  shall  hide 
The  gentle  bird,  Avho  sings  of  pity  best: 

For  still  thy  voice  shall  soft  affections  move, 
And  still  be  dear  to  sorrow,  and  to  love ! 

30 


FROM  "  BEACHY  HEAD." 


I  ONCE  was  happy,  ^\•llon,  while  yet  a  child 
I  learn'd  to  love  these  upland  solitudes, 
And  when,  elastic  as  the  mountain  air. 
To  my  light  spirit  care  was  yet  unknown, 
And  evil  unforeseen  : — early  it  came, 

31 


FROM  '•  BEACH Y  HEAD." 

And  childhood  scarcely  past,  I  was  condemn'd, 

A  guiltless  exile,  silently  to  sigh, 

AMiiTe  Memory,  A^-ith  faithful  i)encil,  drew 

The  contrast ;  and  regretting,  I  compar'd 

With  the  polluted  smoky  atmosphere 

And  dark  and  stifling  streets,  the  southern  hills, 

That,  to  the  setting  sun  their  graceful  heads 

Eearing,  o'erlook  the  frith,  where  Vecta  breaks 

With  her  white  rocks  the  strong  impetuous  tide. 

When  western  winds  the  vast  Atlantic  urge 

To  thunder  on  the  coast.     Haunts  of  my  youth ! 

Scenes  of  fond  day-dreams,  I  behold  ye  yet ! 

Where  'twas  so  pleasant  by  thy  northern  slopes 

To  climb  the  winding  sheep-path,  aided  oft 

By  scatter'd  thorns ;  whose  spring  branches  bore 

Small  woolly  tufts,  spoils  of  the  vagrant  lamb 

There  seeking  shelter  from  the  noonday  sun : 

And  pleasant,  seated  on  the  short  soft  turf, 

To  look  beneath  upon  the  hollow  way 

Wliile  heavily  upward  mov'd  the  labouring  wain, 

And  stalking  slowly  by,  the  sturdy  hind, 

To  ease  his  panting  team,  stopp'd  with  a  stone 

The  grating  wheel. 

Advancing  higher  still, 
The  prospect  widens,  and  the  village  church 
But  little,  o'er  the  lowly  roofs  around. 
Rears  its  grey  belfry,  and  its  simple  vane ; 
Those  lowly  roofs  of  thatch  are  half  conceal'd 
By  the  rude  arms  of  trees,  lovely  in  Spring, 
WTien  on  each  bough  the  rosy  tinctur'd  bloom 
Sits  thick,  and  promises  autumnal  plenty. 
For  even  those  orchards  round  the  Norman  farms, 
AVhich,  as  their  owners  mark  the  promis'd  fruit, 
Console  them  for  the  vineyards  of  the  South, 
Surpass  not  these. 

Where  woods  of  ash,  and  beech, 
And  partial  copses,  fringe  the  green  hill  foot. 


CHAELOTTE  SMITH. 

The  upland  shepherd  rears  his  modest  home  ; 

There  wanders  by  a  little  nameless  stream 

That  from  the  hill  wells  forth,  bright  now  and  cleai*, 

Or  after  rain  with  chalky  mixture  grey, 

But  still  refreshing  in  its  shallow  course 


The  cottiigc  garden  ;    most  for  use  design'd. 
Yet  not  of  beauty  destitute.     The  vine 
Mantles  the  little  casement ;    yet  the  briar 
Drops  fragrant  dew  among  the-  July  flowers  ; 
And  pansies  ray'd,  and  freak'd  and  mottled  pinks 

33  c 


FROM  "BEACHY  HEAD." 

Grow  among  balm,  and  rosemary  and  rue ; 

There  honeysuckles  flaunt,  and  roses  blow 

Almost  uncultur'd :    some  Avith  dark  green  leaves 

Contrast  then-  flowers  of  pure  unsullied  white; 

Others  like  velvet  robes  of  regal  state 

Of  richest  crimson  ;  while,  in  thorny  moss 

Enshrin'd  and  cradled,  the  most  lovely  wear 

The  hues  of  youthful  beauty's  glowing  cheek. — 

With  fond  regi'et  I  recollect  e'en  now 

In  Spring  and  Summer  what  delight  I  felt 

Among  these  cottage  gardens,  and  how  much 

Such  artless  nosegays,  knotted  with  a  rush 

By  village  housewife  or  her  ruddy  maid. 

Were  welcome  to  me  ;    soon  and  simply  pleas' d, 

An  early  worshipper  at  Nature's  shrine, 

I  lov'd  her  rudest  scenes — warrens,  and  heaths, 

And  yellow  commons,  and  birch-shaded  hollows. 

And  hedgerows,  bordering  unfrequented  lanes 

Bower'd  with  wild  roses,  and  the  clasping  woodbine, 

Where  purple  tassels  of  the  tangling  vetch 

With  bittersweet  and  bryony  inweave, 

And  the  dew  fills  the  silver  bindweed's  cups — 

I  lov'd  to  trace  the  brooks  whose  humid  banks 

.Nourish  the  harebell,  and  the  freckled  pagil ; 

And  stroll  among  o'ershadowing  woods  of  beech, 

Lending  in  Summer  from  the  heats  of  noon 

A  wh'^pering  shade  ;    while  haply  there  reclines 

Some  pensive  lover  of  uncultur'd  flowers, 

Who  from  the  tumps,  with  bright  green  mosses  clad, 

Plucks  the  wood  sorrel  with  its  light  thin  leaves, 

Heart-sliap'd,  and  triply-folded,  and  its  root 

Creeping  like  beaded  coral ;  or  who  there 

Gathers,  the  copse's  pride,  anemones. 

With  rays  like  golden  studs  on  ivory  laid 

Most  delicate  :    but  touch'd  Avith  purple  clouds, 

Fit  crown  for  April's  fair  but  changeful  brow. 


34 


ANNA  SEWARD. 


SONG. 


From  thy  waves,  stormy  Lannow,  I  fly ; 
From  the  rocks,  that  are  lash'd  by  their  ticb ; 
From  the  maid,  whose  cold  bosom,  relentless  as  they, 
Has  wi'eck'd  my  warm  hopes  by  her  pride  I — 
Yet  lonely  and  rude  as  the  scene. 
Her  smile  to  that  scene  could  impart 
A  charm,  that  might  rival  the  bloom  of  the  vaie — 
But  away,  thou  fond  dream  of  my.  heart! 
From  thy  rocks,  stormy  Lannow,  I  fly! 

Now  the  blasts  of  the  winter  come  on. 
And  the  waters  grow  dark  as  they  rise ! 
15ut  'tis  Avell !    they  resemble  the  sullen  disdain 
That  has  lour'd  in  those  insolent  eyes. 
Sincere  Avere  the  sighs  they  represt. 
But  they  rose  in  the  days  that  are  flowTi ! 
Ah,  nymph!    unrelenting  and  cold  as  thou  art. 
My  spirit  is  proud  as  thine  own. 

From  thy  rocks,  stormy  Lannow,  I  fly! 

Lo!    the  wings  of  the  sea-fowl  are  spread 
To  escape  the  loud  storm  by  their  flight ; 
And  these  caves  will  afford  them  a  gloomy  retreat 
From  the  winds  and  the  billows  of  niirht ; 
Like  them,  to  the  home  of  my  youth. 
Like  them,  to  its  shades  I  retire ; 
Receive  me,  and  shield  my  vcx'd  spirit,  ye  groves, 
From  the  pangs  of  insulted  desire ! 
To  thy  rocks,  stormy  Lannow,  adieu  ! 

35 


DARWIN. 

MARCH  OF  CAMBYSES. 

When  Heaven's  dread  justice  smites  in  crimes  o'ergrown 

The  blood-nurs'd  tyrant  on  his  purple  throne, 

Gnomes!    your  bold  forms  unnumber'd  arms  outstretch, 

And  urge  the  vengeance  o'er  the  guilty  wretch. 

Thus  when  Cambyses  led  his  barbarous  hosts 

From  Persia's  rocks  to  Egypt's  trembling  coasts. 

Defiled  each  hallow'd  fane,  and  sacred  wood, 

And,  drunk  Avith  fury,  swell'd  the  Nile  with  blood ; 

Wav'd  his  proud  banner  o'er  the  Theban  states. 

And  pour'd  destruction  through  her  hundred  gates ; 

In  dread  divisions  march'd  the  marshall'd  bands. 

And  swarming  armies  blacken'd  all  the  lands, 

By  Memphis  these  to  Ethiop's  sultry  plains. 

And  those  to  Ammon's  sand-encircled  fanes. 

Slow  as  they  pass'd  the  indignant  temples  frown'd, 

Low  curses  muttering  from  the  vaulted  ground ; 

Long  aisles  of  cypress  wav'd  their  deepen'd  glooms, 

And  quivering  spectres  grinn'd  amid  the  tombs  ; 

Prophetic  whispers  breath'd  from  Sphinx's  tongue. 

And  Memnon's  lyre  with  hollow. murmurs  rung; 

Burst  from  each  pyi-amid  expiring  groans, 

And  darker  shadows  stretch'd  their  lengthen'd  cones, 

Day  after  day  .their  dreadful  rout  they  steer. 

Lust  in  the  van,  and  rapine  in  the  rear. 

Gnomes !    as  they  march'd,  you  hid  the  gather'd  fruits. 
The  bladed  grass,  sweet  grains,  and  mealy  roots ; 
Scar'd  the  tired  quails,  that  journey  o'er  their  heads, 
Retain'd  the  locusts  in  their  earthy  beds ; 
Bade  on  your  sands  no  night-born  dews  distil, 
Stay'd  with  vindictive  hands  the  scanty  rill. 
Loud  o'er  the  camp  the  fiend  of  Famine  shrieks, 
Calls  all  her  brood,  and  champs  her  hundred  beaks; 

36 


DARWIN. 

O'er  teu  square  leagues  her  pennons  broad  expand, 
And  twilight  swims  upon  the  shuddering  sand ; 
Perch'd  on  her  crest  the  griffin  Discord  clings, 
And  giant  Murder  rides  between  her  wings ; 
Blood  from  each  clotted  hair,  and  horny  quill. 
And  showers  of  tears  in  blended  streams  distil ; 
High  pois'd  in  air  her  spiry  neck  she  bends, 
Rolls  her  keen  eye,  her  dragon-claws  extends. 
Darts  from  above,  and  tears  at  each  fell  swoop 
With  iron  fangs  the  decimated  troop. 

Now  o'er  their  head  the  whizzing  whirlwinds  breathe, 
And  the  live  desert  pants,  and  heaves  beneath  ; 
Tinged  by  the  crimson  sun,  vast  columns  rise 
Of  eddying  sands,  and  w^ar  amid  the  skies. 
In  red  ax'cades  the  billowy  plain  surround, 
And  whirling  turrets  stalk  along  the  ground. 
— Long  ranks  in  vain  their  shining  blades  extend, 
To  demon-gods  their  knees  unhallow'd  bend. — 
Wheel  in  wide  circle,  form  in  hollow  square. 
And  now  they  front,  and  now  they  fly  the  war. 
Pierce  the  deaf  tempest  with  lamenting  cries, 
Press  their  parch'd  lips,  and  close  their  bloodshot  eyes. 
— Gnomes !    o'er  the  waste  you  led  your  myriad  powers, 
Climb'd  on  the  whirls,  and  aim'd  the  flinty  showers ! 
Onward  resistless  rolls  the  infuriate  surge. 
Clouds  follow  clouds,  and  mountains  mountains  urge  ; 
Wave  over  wave  the  driving  desert  swims. 
Bursts  o'er  their  heads,   inhumes  their  struggling  limbs ; 
JMan  mounts  on  man,  on  (uimels  camels  rush, 
Hosts  march  o'er  hosts,  and  nations  nations  crush, — 
AVhccling  in  air  the  winged  islands  fall. 
And  one  great  earthy  ocean  covers  all ! — 
Then  ceased  the  storm, — Xight  bow'd  his  Ethiop  brow 
To  earth,  and  listen'd  to  the  groans  below, — 
Grim  Horror  shook, — awhile  the  living  hill 
Heaved  with  convulsive  throes, — and  all  was  still ! 

37 


ANTIQUE  GEMS. 


THREE  IMPRESSIONS  OF  ANTIQUE  GEMS. 

THE  EAGLE. 

So,  when  vdth  bristling  plumes  the  bird  of  Jove 
Vindictive  leaves  the  argent  fields  above, 
Borne  on  broad  wings  the  guilty  world  he  awes, 
And  grasps  the  lightning  in  his  shining  claws. 


THE  CHILD  SLEEPING. 

No  voice  so  sweet  attunes  his  cares  to  rest, 

So  soft  no  pillow  as  his  mother's  breast ! — 

— Thus  charm'd  to  sweet  repose,  when  twilight  hours 

Shed  their  soft  influence  on  celestial  bowers. 

The  Cherub  Innocence,  with  smile  divine. 

Shuts  his  white  wings,  and  sleeps  on  Beauty's  shrine. 


LOVE  rJDING  ON  THE  LION. 

So  playful  Love  on  Ida's  flowery  sides 
With  ribbon-rein  the  indignant  dion  guides ; 
Pleased  on  his  brindled  back  the  lyre  he  rings. 
And  shakes  delirious  rapture  from  the  strings ; 
Slow  as  the  pausing  monarch  stalks  along. 
Sheaths  his  retractile  claws,  and  drinks  the  song, 
Soft  nymphs  on  timid  step  the  triumph  view. 
And  listening  fa>vns  with  beating  hoofs  pursue; 
AVith  pointed  ears  the  alarmed  forest  starts, 
And  love  and  music  soften  savage  hearts. 


38 


TASTE. 

If  the  wide  eye  the  wavy  lawns  explores, 
The  bending  woodlands,  or  the  winding  shores, 
Hills,  whose  green  sides  Avith  soft  protuberance  rise, 
Or  the  blue  concave  of  the  vaulted  skies ; — 
Or  scans  witli  nicer  gaze  the  pearly  swell 
Of  spiral  volutes  round  the  twisted  shell ; 
Or  undulating  sweep,  whose  graceful  turns 
Bound  the  smooth  surfoce  of  Etrurian  urns, 
"When  on  fine  forms  the  waving  lines  impress'd 
Give  the  nice  curves,  which  SAvell  the  female  breast ; 
The  countless  joys  the  tender  mother  pours 
Eound  the  soft  cradle  of  our  infout  hours, 
111  lively  trains  of  unextinct  delight 
Ivise  in  our  bofeoms  recognised  by  sight ; 
Fond  Fancy's  eye  recals  the  form  divine. 
And  Taste  sits  smiling  u))on  Beauty's  shrine. 


Where  Egypt's  pyramids  gigantic  stand,' 
And  stretch  their  shadows  o'er  the  shuddering  sand ; 
Or  where  high  rocks,   o'er  ocean's  dashing  floods. 
Wave  high  in  air  their  panoply  of  woods ; 

3!) 


TASTE. 

Admiring  Taste  delights  to  stray  beneath 
With  eye  uplifted,  and  forgets  to  breathe  ; 
Or,  as  aloft  his  daring  footsteps  climb. 
Crests  their  high  summits  with  his  arm  sublime. 

Where  mouldering  columns  mark  the  lingering  wreck 

Of  Thebes,  Palmyra,  Babylon,  Balbec ; 

The  prostrate  obelisk,  or  shatter'd  dome, 

Uprooted  pedestal,  and  yawning  tomb, 

On  loitering  steps  reflective  Taste  surveys 

With  folded  arms  and  sympathetic  gaze ; 

Charm'd  with  poetic  Melancholy  treads 

O'er  ruin'd  towns  and  desolated  meads ; 

Or  rides  sublime  on  Time's  expanded  wings, 

And  views  the  fate  of  ever-changing  things. 

When  Beauty's  streaming  eyes  her  woes  expresp, 
Or  Virtue  braves  unmerited  distress ; 
Love  sighs  in  sympathy,  with  pain  combin'd, 
And  new-born  Pity  charms  the  kindred  mind ; 
The  enamour'd  Sorrow  every  cheek  bedews, 
And  Taste  impassion'd  woos  the  tragic  Muse. 

The  rush-thatch'd  cottage  on  the  purple  moor. 
Where  ruddy  children  frolic  round  the  door, 
The  moss-grown  antlers  of  the  aged  oak, 
The  shaggy  locks  that  fringe  the  colt  unbroke. 
The  bearded  goat  with  nimble  eyes,  that  glare 
Through  the  long  tissue  of  his  hoary  hair, 
As  with  quick  foot  he  climbs  some  ruin'd  Avail 
And  crops  the  ivy,  which  prevents  its  fall ; 
With  rural  charms  the  tranquil  mind  delight, 
And  form  a  picture  to  th'  admiring  sight. 
While  Taste  with  pleasure  bends  his  eye  surpris'd 
In  modern  days  at  Nature  unchastis'd. 


40 


^mi^m^^ 


CROWE. 

LEWESDON  HILL. 

Ilow  changed  is  thy  appearance,  beauteous  Hill ! 
Thou  hast  put  off  thy  wintry  garb,  brown  heath 
And  russet  fern,  thy  seemly-colour'd  cloak, 
To  bide  the  hoary  frosts  and  dripping  rains 

41 


LEWESDON  HILL. 

Of  chill  December,  and  art  gaily  robed 

In  livery  of  the  spring :    upon  thy  brow 

A  cap  of  flowery  hawthorn,  and  thy  neck 

Mantled  with  new-sprung  furze  and  spangles  thick 

Of  golden  bloom ;    nor  lack  thee  tufted  woods 

AdowTi  thy  sides :    tall  oaks  of  lusty  green, 

The  darker  fir,  light  ash,  and  the  nesh  tops 

Of  the  young  hazel  join,  to  form  thy  skirts 

In  many  a  waAy  fold  of  verdant  wreath: 

So  gorgeously  hath  Nature  drest  thee  up 

Against  the  birth  of  May;    and,  vested  so. 

Thou  dost  appear  more  gracefully  array'd 

Than  fashion-mongering  fops,  whose  gaudy  shows. 

Fantastical  as  are  a  sick  man's  dreams. 

From  vanity  to  costly  vanity 

Change  ofter  than  the  moon.      Thy  comely  dress. 

From  sad  to  gay  returning  with  the  year, 

Shall  grace  thee  still  till  Nature's  self  shall  chancre. 


'tr^ 


These  are  the  beauties  of  thy  woodland  scene 
At  each  return  of  Spring :    yet  some  delight 
Rather  to  view  the  change ;    and  fondly  gaze 
On  fading  colours,  and  the  thousand  tints 
Wliich  Autumn  lays  upon  the  varying  leaf: 
I  like  them  not,  for  all  their  boasted  hues 
Are  kin  to  sickliness ;    mortal  decay 
Is  drinking  up  their  vital  juice ;  that  gone. 
They  turn  to  sear  and  yellow.      Should  I  praise 
Such  false  complexions,  and  for  beauty  take 
A  look  consumption-bred?      As  soon,  if  grey 
Were  mixt  in  young  Louisa's  tresses  brown, 
I'd  call  it  beautiful  variety. 
And  therefore  doat  on  her.     Yet  I  can  spy 
A  beauty  in  that  fruitful  change,  Avhen  comes 
The  yellow  Autumn,  and  the  hopes  o'  the  year 
Brings  on  to  golden  ripeness ;    nor  dispraise 
vThe  pure  and  spotless  form  of  that  sharp  time, 

42 


CROWE. 

When  January  spreads  a  pall  of  snow 

O'er  the  dead  face  of  th'   undistinguish'd  earth. 

Then  stand  I  m  the"  hollow  comb  beneath, 

And  bless  this  friendly  mount,  that  Aveather-fendii; 

My  reed-roof'd  cottage,  while  the  wintry  blast 

From  the  thick  North  comes  howling ;    till  the  Spring 

JReturn,  who  leads  my  devious  steps  abroad, 

To  climb,  as  now,  to  Lewesdon's  airy  top. 

From  this  proud  eminence  on  all  sides  round 
Th'   unbroken  prospect  opens  to  my  view, 
On  all  sides  large ;    save  only  Avhere  the  head 
Of  Pillesdon  rises,  Pillesdon's  lofty  Pen : 
So  call  (still  rendering  to  his  ancient  name 
Observance  due)  that  rival  Height  south-west, 
Which,  like  a  rampire,  bounds  the  vale  beneath. 
There  woods,  there  blooming  orchards,  there  are  seen. 
Herds  ranjrino;,  or  at  rest  beneath  the  shade 
Of  some  wide-branching  oak;    there  goodly  fields 
Of  corn,  and  verdant  pasture,  whence  the  kine, 
Retiu'ning  with  their  milky  treasure  home. 
Store  the  rich  dairy ;    such  fair  plenty  fills 
The  pleasant  vale  of  JVIarshwood,  pleasant  noAV, 
Since  that  the  Spring  hath  deck'd  anew  the  meads 
With  flowery  vesture,  and  the  warmer  sun 
Their  foggy  moistness  drain' d ;    in  wintry  days 
Cold,  vapourish,  miry,  Avet,  and  to  the  flocks 
Unfriendly,  when  autumnal  rains  begin 
To  drench  the  spungy  turf;    but  ere  that  time 
The  careful  shepherd  moves  to  healthier  soil, 
Rechasing,  lest  his  tender  ewes  should  coatli 
In  the  dank  pasturage.     Yet  not  the  fields 
Of  Evesham,  nor  that  ample  valley  named 
Of  the  White  Horse,  its  antique  monument 
Carved  in  the  chalky  bourne,  for  beauty  and  wealth 
Might  ccpial,   though  surpassing  in  extent, 
This  fertile  vale,  in  length  from  Lewesdon's  base 

•43 


LEWESDON  HILL. 

Extended  to  the  sea,  and  water'd  well 

By  many  a  rill ;    but  chief  with  thy  clear  stream, 

Thou  nameless  Rivulet,  who,  from  the  side 

Of  Lewesdon  softly  welling  forth,  dost  trip 

Adown  the  valley,  wandering  sportively. 


Alas !    how  soon  thy  little  course  will  end ! 
How  soon  thy  infant  stream  shall  lose  itself 
In  the  salt  mass  of  waters,  ere  it  grow 
To  name  or  greatness !     Yet  it  flows  along 
Untainted  with  the  commerce  of  the  world. 

44 


CROWE. 

Nor  passing  by  the  noisy  haunts  of  men ; 
But  through  sequester'd  meads,  a  little  space, 
Winds  secretly,  and  in  its  Avanton  path 
May  cheer  some  drooping  flower,  or  minister 
Of  its  cool  water  to  the  thirsty  lamb : 
Then  falls  into  the  ravenous  sea,  as  pure 
As  \\dien  it  issued  from  its  native  hill. 

How  is  it  vanisli'd  in  a  hasty  spleen. 
The  Tor  of  Glastonbury !      Even  but  now 
I  saw  the  hoary  pile  cresting  the  top 
Of  that  north-western  hill ;    and  in  this  iSow 
A  cloud  hath  pass'd  on  it,  and  its  dim  bulk 
Becomes  annihilate,  or  if  not,  a  spot 
"Which  the  strain'd  vision  tires  itself  to  find. 
And  even  so  fares  it  with  the  things  of  earth 
Which  seem  most  constant :    there  will  come  the  cloud 
That  shall  enfold  them  up,  and  leave  their  place 
A  seat  for  Emptiness.      Our  narrow  ken 
Reaches  too  far,  Avhen  all  that  we  behold 
Is  but  the  havoc  of  wide-wasting  Time, 
Or  what  he  soon  shall  spoil.      His  out-spread  wings 
(Which  bear  him  like  an  eagle  o'er  the  earth) 
Are  plumed  in  front  so  do\Aaiy  soft,  they  seem 
To  foster  what  they  touch,  and  mortal  fools 
Eejoice  beneath  their  hovering :     Woe  the  while ! 
For  in  that  indefatigable  flight 
The  multitudinous  strokes  incessantly 
Bruise  all  beneath  their  cope,  and  mark  on  all 
His  secret  injury :    on   the  front  of  man 
Grey  hairs  and  Avrinkles ;    still  as  Time  speeds  on, 
Hard  and  more  hard  his  iron  pennons  beat 
With  ceaseless  violence ;    nor  overpass, 
Till  all  the  cx'caturcs  of  this  nether  world 
Are  one  wide  quarry ;    following  dark  behind, 
The  cormorant  Oblivion  swallows  up 
The  carcases  that  Time  has  made  his  prey. 

45 


LEWESDON  HILL. 

But  hark !    the  village  clock  strikes  ijine — the  chimes 

Merrily  follow,  tuneful  to  the  sense 

Of  the  pleased  clown  attentive,  while  they  make 

False-measured  melody  on  crazy  bells. 

O  Avondrous  power  of  modulated  sound ! 

Which,  like  the  air,  (whose  all-obedient  shape 

Thou  mak'st  thy  slave,)  canst  subtilly  pervade 

The  yielded  avenues  of  sense,  unlock 

The  close  aiFections,  by  some  fairy  path 

Winning  an  easy  way  through  every  ear, 

And  with  thine  unsubstantial  quality 

Holding  in  mighty  chains  the  hearts  of  all ; 

All,  but  some  cold  and  suUen-temper'd  spu-its 

Who  feel  no  touch  of  sympathy,  or  love. 

Yet  what  is  music,  and  the  blended  power 

Of  voice  with  instruments  of  wind  and  string? 

What  but  an  empty  pageant  of  sweet  noise! 

'Tis  past;    and  all  that  it  has  left  behind 

Is  but  an  echo  dwelling  in  the  ear 

Of  the  toy-taken  fancy,  and  beside, 

A  void  and  countless  hour  in  life's  brief  day. 

Now  I  descend 
To  join  the  worldly  crowd ;    perchance  to  talk, 
To  think,  to  act  as  they :    then  all  these  thoughts. 
That  lift  th'  expanded  heart  above  this  spot 
To  heavenly  musing,  these  shall  pass  away, 
(Even  as  this  goodly  prospect  from  my  view,) 
Hidden  by  near  and  earthy-rooted  cares. 
So  passeth  human  life — our  better  mind 
Is  as  a  Sunday's  garment,  then  put  on 
AVhen  we  have  nought  to  do;    but  at  our  work 
AVe  wear  a  worse  for  thrift. 


46 


'^^^^j^-^^^^mw^.^^ii'^"^:'^'"'' 


--•^<u-iin,,///,:  , 
.III  •  ^^  ^  •  '' 


ii,x^ 


-  -iJj^^KsirPt! 


^0,7. 


PERCY 


THE  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY. 


It  was  a  friar  of  orilers  gray 
Walkt  forth  to  tell  his  beades ; 
47 


THE  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY. 

And  he  met  with  a  lady  faire 
Clad  in  a  pilgrime's  weedes. 

"Now  Christ  thee  save,  thou  reverend  friar. 

I  pray  thee  tell  to  me, 
If  ever  at  yon  holy  shrine 

My  true  love  thou  didst  seef 

"  And  how  should  I  know  your  true  love 

From  many  another  one?" 
"O,  by  his  cockle  hat,  and  staff. 

And  by  his  sandal  shoone ; 

"But  chiefly  by  his  face  and  mien, 

That  were  so  fair  to  view ; 
His  flaxen  locks  that  sweetly  curl'd. 

And  eyne  of  lovely  blue." 

"  O  lady,  he  is  dead  and  gone ! 

Lady,  he's  dead  and  gone ! 
And  at  his  head  a  green  grass  turfc, 

And  at  his  heels  a  stone. 

"Within  these  holy  cloysters  long 

He  languisht,  and  he  dyed, 
Lamenting  of  a  ladye's  love, 

And  'playning  of  her  pride. 

"  Here  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier 

Six  proper  youths  and  tall. 
And  many  a  tear  bedew'd  his  grave 

Within  yon  kirk-yard  wall." 

"And  art  thou  dead,  thou  gentle  youth, 
And  art  thou  dead  and  gone! 

And  didst  thou  dye  for  love  of  me ! 
Break,  cruel  heart  of  stone !" 

48 


PEKCY. 

"O  weep  not,  lady,  weep  not  soe: 

Some  ghostly  comfort  seek : 
Let  not  vain  sorrow  rive  thy  heart, 

Ne  teares  bedew  thy  cheek." 

"  O  do  not,  do  not,  holy  friar, 

]My  sorrow  now  reprove ; 
For  I  have  lost  the  sweetest  youth 

That  e'er  won  ladye's  love. 

"And  nowe,  alas!    for  thy  sad  losse, 

I'll  evermore  weep  and  sigh : 
For  thee  I  only  wisht  to  live. 

For  thee  I  Avish  to  dye." 

^'  Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more, 

Thy  sorrowe  is  in  vaine : 
For  violets  pluckt  the  sweetest  showers 

Will  ne'er  make  grow  againe. 

"  Our  joys  as  winged  dreams  doe  flye ; 

Why,  then,  should  sorrow  last? 
Since  grief  but  aggravates  thy  losse. 

Grieve  not  for  what  is  past." 

"  O  say  not  soe,  thou  holy  friar ; 

I  pray  thee,  say  not  soe : 
For  since  my  true-love  dyed  for  mee, 

'Tis  meet  my  teares  should  flow. 

"And  will  he  never  come  again? 

Will  he  ne'er  come  again  ? 
Ah  !    no,  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave, 

For  ever  to  remain. 

"His  cheek  was  redder  than  the  rose; 
The  comeliest  youth  was  he ! 

40  i> 


THE  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY. 

But  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave : 
Alas !    and  woe  is  me !" 

"  Sigh  no  more,  lady,  sigh  no  more. 

Men  were  deceivers  ever : 
One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  land, 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 


"  Hadst  thou  been  fond,  he  had  been  false, 

And  left  thee  sad  and  heavy; 
For  young  men  ever  were  fickle  found, 

Since  summer  trees  were  leafy." 

"Now  say  not  soe,  thou  holy  friar, 

I  pray  thee  say  not  soe ; 
My  love  he  had  the  truest  heart: 

O  he  was  ever  true ! 

"And  art  ihou  dead,  thou  much-lov'd  youth. 

And  didst  thou  dye  for  mee? 
Then  farewell  home ;    for  evermore 

A  pilgrim  I  will  bee. 

"But  first  upon  my  true-love's  grave 

My  weary  limbs  I'll  lay, 
And  thrice  I'll  kiss  the  green  grass-turf 

That  wraps  his  breathless  clay." 

"Yet  stay,  fair  lady :    rest  awhile 

Beneath  this  cloyster  wall : 
See  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  cold  Avihd, 

And  drizzly  rain  doth  fall." 

"O  stay  me  not,  thou  holy  friar; 

O  stay  me  not,  I  pray; 
No  drizzly  rain  that  falls  on  me 

Can  wash  my  fault  away." 

50 


PERCY. 

"  Yet  stay,  fail-  lady,  turn  again, 

And  dry  those  pearly  tears ; 
For  see  beneath  this  gouTi  of  gray 

Thy  o^vne  true-love  appears. 

"Here,  forc'd  by  grief,  and  hopeless  love, 

These  holy  weeds  I  sought ; 
And  here  amid  these  lonely  walls 

To  eiid  my  days  I  thought. 

"But  haply,  for  my  year  of  grace 

Is  not  yet  pass'd  away. 
Might  I  still  hope  to  win  thy  love, 

No  longer  would  I  stay." 

"  Now  farewell  gi'ief,  and  welcome  jo}' 

Once  more  unto  my  heart ; 
For  since  I've  found  thee,  lovely  jouth, 

We  never  more  Avill  part." 


GENTLE  RIVER. 

Gentle  river,  gentle  river, 

Lo,  thy  streams  are  stain'd  with  gore. 
Many  a  brave  and  noble  captain 

Floats  along  thy  willow' d  shore. 

All  beside  thy  lim})id  waters. 
All  beside  thy  sands  so  briglit, 

jMoorish  Chiefs  and  Christian  Warriors 
Join'd  in  fierce  and  mortal  fight. 

51 


GENTLE  RIVER. 

Lords,  and  dukes,  and  noble  princes, 
On  thy  fatal  banks  were  slain: 

Fatal  banks,  that  gave  to  slaughter 
All  the  pride  and  flower  of  Spain. 

There  the  hero,  brave  Alonzo, 
Full  of  wounds  and  glory,  died : 

There  the  fearless  Urdiales 
Fell  a  victim  by  his  side. 

« 

Lo!    where  yonder  Don  Saavedra 

Through  their  squadrons  slow  retires ; 

Froud  Seville,  his  native  city. 
Proud  Seville  his  worth  admires. 


Close  behind,  a  renegado 

Loudly  shouts  with  taunting  cry: 
"Yield  thee,  yield  thee,  Don  Saavedra; 

Dost  thou  from  the  battle  fly? 

"Well  I  know  thee,  haughty  Christian, 
Long  I  liv'd  beneath  thy  roof; 

Oft  I've  in  the  lists  of  glory 

Seen  thee  win  the  prize  of  proof. 

"AVell  I  know  thy  aged  parents, 
Well  thy  blooming  bride  I  know ; 

Seven  years  I  was  thy  captive, 
Seven  years  of  pain  and  woe. 

"May  our  Prophet  grant  my  wishes. 
Haughty  Chief,  thou  shalt  be  mine  ; 

Thou  shalt  drink  that  cup  of  sorrow. 
Which  I  drank  when  I  was  thine." 

52 


Like  a  lion   turn?;  the  warrior 
Back  he  sends  an  angry  glare : 

Whizzing  came  the  Moorish  javelin, 
^"ainly  whizzing  through   the  air. 
53 


GENTLE  RIVER. 

Back  the  hero,  full  of  fury, 

Sent  a  deep  and  mortal  wound: 

Instant  sunk  the  Renegado, 

Mute  and  lifeless  on  the  ground. 

With  a  thousand  Moors  surrounded 
Brave  Saavedra  stands  at  bay: 

Wearied  out,  but  never  daunted, 
Cold  at  length  the  warrior  lay. 


Near  him  fighting,  great  Alonzo 
Stout  resists  the  Paynim  bands; 

From  his  slaughter'd  steed  dismounted 
Firm  intrench'd  behind  him  stands. 

Furious  press  the  hostile  squadron. 
Furious  he  repels  their  rage : 

Loss  of  blood  at  length  enfeebles : 
Who  can  war  with  thousands  wage! 

Where  yon  rock  the  plain  o'ershadows. 
Close  beneath  its  foot  retir'd, 

Fainting,  sunk  the  bleeding  hero, 
And  without  a  groan  expu-'d. 


54 


■'T-S^i^-'^-,-..  -a 


CRABBE. 


A  GIPSY  ENCAMPMENT. 


Again,  the  country  was  enclosed,  a  wide 
And  sandy  road  has  banks  on  either  side  ; 
AVHiere,  lo !    a  hollow  on   the  left  appear'd, 
And  there  a  Gipsy  tril)e  their  tent  had  rear'd  ; 


A  GIPSY  ENCAMPMENT. 

• 

'Twas  open  spread,  to  catch  the  morning  sun, 

And  they  had  now  their  early  meal  begun, 

When  two  brown  boys  just  left  their  grassy  seat, 

The  early  Trav'ller  with  their  prayers  to  greet : 

While  yet  Orlando  held  his  pence  in  hand, 

He  saw  their  sister  on  her  duty  stand ; 

Some  twelve  years  old,  demure,  affected,  sly, 

Prepared  the  force  of  early  powers  to  try ; 

Sudden  a  look  of  languor  he  descries, 

And  well-feign'd  apprehension  in  her  eyes ; 

Train'd,  but  yet  savage,  in  her  speaking  face 

He  mark'd  the  features  of  her  vagrant  race ; 

When  a  light  laugh  and  roguish  leer  express'd 

The  vice  implanted  in  her  youthful  breast : 

Forth  from  the  tent  her  elder  brother  came, 

Wlio  seem'd  offended,  yet  forbore  to  blame 

The  young  designer,  but  could  only  trace 

The  looks  of  pity  in  the  Trav'ller's  face : 

Within,  the  Father,  who  from  fences  nigh 

Had  brought  the  fuel  for  the  fire's  supply, 

Watch' d  now  the  feeble  blaze,  and  stood  dejected  by. 

On  ragged  rug,  just  borrow'd  from  the  bed, 

And  by  the  hand  of  coarse  indulgence  fed. 

In  dirty  patchwork  negligently  dress'd, 

Keclin'd  the  Wife,  an  infant  at  her  breast ; 

In  her  wild  face  some  touch  of  grace  remain'd, 

Of  vigour  palsied  and  of  beauty  stain'd ; 

Her  bloodshot  eyes  on  her  unheeding  mate 

Were  wrathful  turn'd,  and  seem'd  her  wants  to  state, 

Cursing  his  tardy  aid — her  Mother  there 

With  gipsy-state  engross'd  the  only  chair ; 

Solemn  and  dull  her  look  ;    with  such  she  stands 

And  reads  the  milk-maid's  fortune  in  her  hands, 

Tracing  the  lines  of  life  ;    assum'd  through  years, 

Each  feature  now  the  steady  falsehood  wears  ; 

With  hard  and  savage  eye  she  views  the  food, 

And  grudging  pinches  their  intruding  brood. 


CRABBE. 

Last  in  the  group,  the  worn-out  Grandsu-e  sits, 
Neglected,  lost,  and  living  but  by  fits : 
Useless,  despis'd,  his  worthless  labours  done, 
And  half  protected  by  the  vicious  Son, 
^Yho  half  supports  him;    he  with  heavy  glance 
Views  the  young  ruffians  who  around  him  dance ; 
And,  by  the  sadness  in  his  face,  appears 
To  trace  the  progress  of  their  future  years : 
Through  what  strange  course  of  misery,  vice,  deceit, 
Must  wildly  wander  each  unpi'actis'd  cheat! 
What  shame  and  grief,  what  punishment  and  pain, 
Sport  of  fierce  passions,  must  each  child  sustain — 
Ere  they  like  him  approach  their  latter  end. 
Without  a  hope,  a  comfort,  or  a  friend ! 


MARINE  VIEWS. 

Be  it  the  Summer-noon :    a  sandy  space 
The  ebbing  tide  has  left  upon  its  place ; 
Then  just  the  hot  and  stony  beach  above. 
Light  twinkling  streams  in  bright  confusion  move ; 
(For  heated  thus,  the  warmer  air  ascends. 
And  with  the  cooler  in  its  fall  contends) — 
Then  the  broad  bosom  of  the  ocean  keeps 
An  e({iial  motion  ;    swelling  as  it  sleeps, 
Then  slowly  sinking ;    curling  to  the  strand. 
Faint,  lazy  Avaves  o'ercreep  the  rigid  sand. 
Or  t;ip  the  tarry  boat   with  gentle  blow, 
Anil   hack  return   in   silence,  smooth  and  slow. 

57 


MARINE  VIEWS. 

Ships  in  the  calm  seem  anchor' d ;    for  they  glide 

On  the  still  sea,  urg'd  solely  by  the  tide : 

Art  thou  not  present,  this  calm  scene  belbre, 

Where  all  beside  is  pebbly  length  of  shore. 

And  far  as  eye  can  reach,  it  can  discern  no  more? 

Yet  sometimes  comes  a  ruffling  cloud  to  make 
The  quiet  surface  of  the  ocean  shake  ; 
As  an  awaken' d  giant  with  a  frown 
IVIight  show  his  wrath,  and  then  to  sleep  sink  down. 

View  now  the  Winter-storm !    above,  one  cloud, 
Black  and  unbroken,  all  the  skies  o'ershroud: 
Th'  unwieldy  porpoise  through  the  day  before, 
Had  roll'd  in  view  of  boding  men  on  shore ; 
And  sometimes  hid  and  sometimes  show'd  his  form. 
Dark  as  the  cloud,  and  furious  as  the  storm. 

All  where  the  eye  delights,  yet  dreads,  to  roam. 
The  breaking  billows  cast  the  flying  foam 
Upon  the  billows  rising — all  the  deep 
Is  restless  change ;    the  waves  so  swell'd  and  steep, 
Breaking  and  sinking,  and  the  sunken  swells. 
Nor  one,  one  moment,  in  its  station  dwells: 
But  nearer  land  you  may  the  billows  trace. 
As  if  contending  in  their  watery  chase ; 
May  watch  the  mightiest  till  the  shoal  they  reach, 
Then  break  and  hurry  to  their  utmost  stretch ; 
Curl'd  as  they  come,  they  strike  with  furious  force. 
And  then,  re-flowing,  take  their  grating  course, 
Eaking  the  rounded  flints,  which  ages  past 
Roll'd  by  their  rage,  and  shall  to  ages  last 

Far  off"  the  Petrel  in  the  troubled  way 
Swims  with  her  brood,  or  flutters  in  the  spray; 
She  rises  often,  often  drops  again. 
And  sports  at  ease  on  the  tempestuous  main. 

High  o'er  the  restless  deep,  above  the  reach 
Of  gunner's  hope,  vast  flocks  of  Wild-ducks  stretch ; 
P'ar  as  the  eye  can  glance  on  either  side. 
In  a  broad  space  and  level  line  they  glide; 

58 


All  in  tlieir  wecljre-like  figures  from  the  north. 
Day  after  clay,  fliglit  after  flight,  go  forth. 

In-shore  their  passage  tribes  of  sea-gulls  urge. 
And  drop  for  prey  within  the  sweeping  surge ; 
Oft  in  the  rough  opposing  blast  they  fly 
Far  back,  then  turn,  and  all  their  force  apply. 
While  to  the  storm  they  give  their  weak  complaining  cry; 

59 


MARINE  VIEWS. 

Or  clap  the  sleek  white  pinion  to  the  breast, 
And  in  the  restless  ocean  dip  for  rest. 

Darkness  begins  to  reign ;    the  louder  wind 
Appals  the  weak,  and  awes  the  firmer  mind ; 
But  frights  not  him  Avhom  evening  and  the  spray 
Li  part  conceal — yon  Prowler  on  his  way: 
Lo !    he  has  something  seen  ;    he  runs  apace. 
As  if  he  fear'd  companion  in  the  chase ; 
He  sees  his  prize,  and  now  he  turns  again, 
Slowly  and  sorrowing — "Was  your  search  in  vain?" 
Grufl[ly  he  answers,   "  'Tis  a  sorry  sight ! — 
A  seaman's  body :    there'll  be  more  to-night !" 
Hark  to  those  sounds !    they're  from  distress  at  sea : 
How  quick  they  come !     What  terrors  may  there  be ! 
Yes,  'tis  a  driven  vessel:    I  discern 
Lights,  signs  of  terror,  gleaming  from  the  stern. 
Others  behold  them  too,  and  from  the  to^\^l 
In  various  parties  seamen  hurry  down ; 
Their  wives  pursue,  and  damsels,  urged  by  dread. 
Lest  men  so  dear  be  into  danger  led ; 
Their  head  the  go'svn  has  hooded,  and  their  call 
In  this  sad  night  is  piercing  like  the  squall ; 
They  feel  their  kinds  of  power,  and  when  they  meet, 
Chide,  fondle,  weep,  dare,  threaten,  or  entreat. 

See  one  poor  girl,  all  terror  and  alarm, 
Has  fondly  seiz'd  upon  her  lover's  arm ; 
"  Thou  shalt  not  venture ;"    and  he  answers  "  No ! 
I  will  not:" — stUl  she  cries,  "Thou  shalt  not  go." 

No  need  of  this ;    not  here  the  stoutest  boat 
Can  through  such  breakers,  o'er  such  billows  float ; 
Yet  may  they  view  these  lights  upon  the  beach. 
Which  yield  them  hope  whom  help  can  never  reach. 

From  parted  clouds  the  moon  her  radiance  throw? 
On  the  wild  waves,  and  all  the  danger  shows ; 
But  shows  them  beaming  in  her  shining  vest. 
Terrific  splendour !    gloom  in  glory  dress'd  ! 


60 


CRABBE. 

This  for  a  moment,  and  then  clouds  again 
Hide  every  beam,  and  fear  and  darkness  reign. 

But  hear  we  not  those  sounds  1     Do  lights  appear? 
I  see  them  not !    the  storm  alone  I  hear : 
And  lo!    the  sailors  homeward  take  their  way; 
Man  must  endure — let  us  submit  and.  pray. 


CI 


A  GOOD  VILLAGER. 


Next  to  these  ladies,  but  in  nought  allied, 
A  noble  peasant,  Isaac  Ashford,  died. 
Noble  he  was,  contemning  all  things  mean, 
His  truth   unquestion'd,  and  his  soul  serene : 
Of  no  man's  presence  Isaac  felt  afraid ; 
At  no  man's  question  Isaac  look'd  dismay'd ; 

G2 


CRABBE. 

Shame  knew  him  not,  he  dreaded  no  disgrace , 

Truth,  simple  truth,  was  written  in  his  face : 

Yet  while  the  serious  thought  his  soul  approv'd, 

Cheerful  he  seem'd,  and  gentleness  he  lov'd ; 

To  bliss  domestic  he  his  heart  resigned. 

And  with  the  firmest  had  the  fondest  mind ; 

Were  others  joyful,  he  look'd  smiling  on, 

And  gave  allowance  where  he  needed  none ; 

Good  he  refus'd  vvith  future  ill  to  buy, 

Nor  knew  a  joy  that  caus'd  Retlectioiys  sigh; 

A  friend  to  Virtue,  his  unclouded  breast 

No  envy  stung,  no  jealousy  distress'd ; 

(Bane  of  the  poor !    it  Avounds  their  weaker  mind. 

To  miss  one  favour,  which  then-  neighbours  find :) 

Yet  far  was  he  from  stoic  pride  remov'd ; 

He  felt  humanely,  and  he  warmly  lov'd : 

I  mark'd  his  action,  when  his  infant  died. 

And  his  old  neighbour  for  offence  was  tried; 

The  still  tears,  stealing  down  that  furrow'd  cheek. 

Spoke  pity,  plainer  than  the  tongue  can  speak. 

If  pride  Avere  his,  'twas  not  their  vulgar  pride. 

Who,  in  their  base  contempt,  the  great  deride ; 

Nor  pride  in  learning, — though  my  clerk  agreed, 

If  fate  should  call  him,  Ashford  might  succeed  ; 

Nor  pride  in  rustic  skill,  although  we  knew 

None  his  superior,  and  his.  equals  few. — 

But  if  that  spirit  in  his  soul  had  place. 

It  was  the  jealous  pride  that  shuns  disgrace ; 

A  pride  in  honest  fame,  by  virtue  gain'd. 

In  sturdy  boys  to  virtuous  labours  train'd ; 

Pride  in  the  poAver  that  guards  his  country's  coast. 

And  all  that  Englishmen  enjoy  and  boast ; 

Pride  in  a  life  that  Slander's  tongue  defied, — 

In  fact,  a  noble  passion,  misnam'd  Pride. 

He  had  no  party's  rage,  no  sect'ry's  Avhim  ; 
Christian  and  countrymen  AA'ere  all  Avith  him : 
True  to  his  church  he  came ;    no  Sunda\--shoAver 

G3 


A  GOOD  Vir-LAGER. 

Kept  him  at  home  in  that  important  hour ; 
Nor  his  firm  feet  could  one  persuading  sect. 
By  the  strong  glare  of  their  new  light  direct : — 
"  On  hope,  in  mine  own  sober  light,  I  gaze. 
But  should  be  blind,  and  lose  it,  in  your  blaze." 

In  times  severe,  when  many  a  sturdy  swain 
Felt  it  his  pride,  his  comfort,  to  complain  ; 
Isaac  their  wants  would  soothe,  his  own  would  hide, 
And  feel  in  that  his  comfort  and  his  pride. 

At  length'  he  found,  when  seventy  years  were  run, 
His  strength  departed,  and  his  labour  done ; 
When  he,  save  honest  fame,  retain' d  no  more. 
But  lost  his  wife,  and  saw  his  children  poor : 
'Twas  then  a  spark  of — say  not  discontent — 
Struck  on  his  mind,  and  thus  he  gave  it  vent : — 

"Kind  are  your  laws  ('tis  not  to  be  defiied,) 
That  in  yon  House,  for  ruin'd  age,  provide. 
And  they  are  just ; — when  young  we  give  you  all, 
And  for  assistance  in  our  weakness  call — 
Why  then  this  proud  reluctance  to  be  fed. 
To  join  your  poor,  and  eat  the  parish  bread  ? 
But  yet  I  linger,  loth  with  him  to  feed, 
Who  gains  his  plenty  by  the  sons  of  need  ; 
He  who,  by  contract,  all  your  paupers  took. 
And  gauges  stomachs  with  an  anxious  look : 
On  some  old  master  I  could  well  depend ; 
See  him  with  joy,  and  thank  him  as  a  friend ; 
But  ill  on  him,  who  doles  the  day's  supply. 
And  counts  our  chances  who  at  night  may  die : 
Yet  help  me,  Heav'n !   and  let  me  not  complain 
Of  Avhat  I  suffer,  but  my  fate  sustain." 

Such  were  his  tlioughts,  and  so  resign'd  he  grCAV  ; 
Daily  he  plac'd  the  Workhouse  in  his  view ! 
But  came  not  there,  for  sudden  was  his  fate. 
He  dropp'd,  expiring,  at  his  cottage  gate. 

I  feel  his  absence  in  the  hours  of  prayer, 
And  view  his  seat,  and  sigh  for  Isaac  there : 

64 


CRABBE. 

I  see  no  more  those  white  locks  thinly  spread 
Round  the  bald  polish  of  that  honour' d  head ; 
No  more  that  awful  glance  on  playful  wight, 
Compell'd  to  kneel  and  tremble  at  the  sight, 
To  fold  his  lingers,  all  in  dread  the  while, 
Till  Mister  Ashford  soften'd  to  a  smile  ;- 
No  more  that  meek  and  suppliant  look  in  prayer, 
Nor  the  pure  faith  (to  give  it  force)  are  there: — 
But  he  is  blest,  and  I  lament  no  more 
A  wise  good  man  contented  to  be  poor. 


•      THE  PARTING  LOOK. 

One  day  he  lighter  seem'd,  and  they  forgot 

The  care,  the  dread,  the  anguish  of  their  lot ; 

They  spoke  with  cheerfulness,  and  seem'd  to  think. 

Yet  said  not  so,  "Perhaps  he  will  not  sink:" 

A  sudden  brightness  in  his  look  appear'd, 

A  sudden  vigour  in  his  voice  was  heard ; — 

She  had  been  reading  in  the  Book  of  Prayer, 

And  led  him  forth,  and  placed  him  in  his  chaii'; 

Lively  he  seem'd,  and  spoke  of  all  he  knew. 

The  friendly  many  and  the  favourite  few : 

Not  one  that  day  did  he  to  mind  recal 

But  she  has  treasur'd,  and  she  loves  them  all ; 

When  in  her  way  she  meets  them,  they  appear 

Peculiar  people, — death  has  made  them  dear. 

He  named  his  Friend,  but  then  his  hand  she  press'd, 

And  fondly  wliispered,    "Thou  must  go  to  rest."' 

"  I  go,"  he  said ;    but  as  he  spoke,  she  found 

His  hand  more  cold,  and  fluttering  was  the  sound ! 

Then  gazed  afFrighten'd ;    but  she  caught  a  last, 

A  dying  look  of  love, — and  all  was  past! 

63  E 


MARY  TIGHE. 


PSYCHE  GAZING  UPON  THE  LOVE-GOD. 


Aixow'd  to  settle  on  celestial  eyes, 
Soft  Sleep,  exulting,  now  exerts  his  sway. 
From  Psyche's  anxious  pillow  gladly  flies 
To  veil  those  orbs,  whose  pure  and  lambent  ray 
The  Powers  of  heaven  submissively  obey. 
Trembling  and  breathless  then  she  softly  rose, 
And  seized  the  lamp,  where  it  obscurely  lay. 
With  hand  too  rashly  daring  to  disclose 
The  sacred  veil  which  hung  mysterious  o'er  her  woes. 

Twice,  as  with  agitated  step  she  went. 
The  lamp,  expiring,  shone  with  doubtful  gleam. 
As  though  it  warn'd  her  from  her  rash  intent  •, 
And  twice  she  paus'd,  and  on  its  trembling  beam 
Gazed  with  suspended  breath,  while  voices  seem 
With  murmuring  sound  along  the  roof  to  sigh ; 
As  one  just  waking  from  a  troublous  dream, 
With  palpitating  heart  and  straining  eye. 
Still  fix'd  with  fear  remains,  still  thinks  the  danger  nigh. 

Oh,  daring  Muse  !    wilt  thou  indeed  essay 
To  paint  the  wonders  which  that  lamp  could  show? 
And  canst  thou  hope  in  living  words  to  say 
The  dazzling  glories  of  that  heavenly  view? 
Ah !    well  I  ween  that,  if  with  pencil  true 

G6 


MARY  TIGHE. 

•     That  splendid  vision  could  be  well  exprest, 
The  fearful  awe  imprudent  Psyche  knew, 
Would  seize  with  rapture  every  wondering  breast, 

When  Love's  all-potent  charms  divinely  stood  confest. 

All  imperceptible  to  human  touch, 
His  wings  display  celestial  essence  light ; 
The  clear  effulgence  of  the  blaze  is  such. 
The  brilliant  plumage  shines  so  heavenly  bright, 
That  mortal  eyes  turn  dazzled  from  the  sight ; 
A  youth  he  seems  in  manhood's  freshest  years. 
Round  his  fair  neck,  as  clinging  with  delight. 
Each  golden  Curl  i-esplendently  appears,  ^ 

Or  shades  his  darker  brow,  Avliich  grace  majestic  wears ; 

Or  o'er  his  guileless  front  his  ringlets  bright 
Their  rays  of  sunny  lustre  seem  to  throw. 
That  front  than  polish'd  ivory  more  white ! 
His  blooming  cheeks  with  deeper  blushes  glow 
Than  roses  scatter'd  o'er  a  bed  of  snow: 
While  on  his  lips,  distill'd  in  balmy  dews, 
(Those  lips  divine  that  even  in  silence  know 
The  heart  to  touch,)  persuasion  to  infuse. 
Still  hangs  a  rosy  charm  that  never  vainly  sues. 

The  friendly  curtain  of  indulgent  sleep 
Disclos'd  not  yet  his  eyes'  resistless  sway. 
But  from  their  silky  veil  there  seem'd  to  peep 
Some  brilliant  glances  with  a  soften'd  ray, 
Which  o'er  his  features  exquisitely  play, 
And  all  his  polish'd  limbs  suffuse  with  light  ; 
Thus  through  some  narrow  space  the  azure  day, 
Sudden  its  cheerful  rays  diffusing  bright, 
Wide  darts  its  lucid  beams,  to  gild  the  brow  of  nisrlit. 


cr' 


His  fatal  arrows  and  celestial  bow 
Beside  the  couch  were  negligently  thrown, 


PSYCHE  GAZING  UPON  THE  LOVE-GOD. 

Nor  needs  the  god  his  dazzling  arms,  to  show 
His  glorious  birth,  such  beauty  round  him  shone 
As  sure  could  spring  from  Beauty's  self  alone ; 
The  gloom  which  glow'd  o'er  all  of  soft  desire, 
Could  well  proclaim  him  Beauty's  cherish'd  son  ; 
And  Beauty's  self  will  oft  these  charms  admire, 
And  steal  his  witching  smile,  his  glance's  living  fire. 

Speechless  with  awe,  in  transport  strangely  lost, 
Long  Psyche  stood  with  fix'd  adoring  eye ; 
Her  limbs  immovable,  her  senses  tost 
Between  amazement,  fear,  and  ecstasy, 
She  hangs  enamour'd  o'er  the  deity — 
Till  from  her  trembling  hand  extinguish'd  falls 
The  fatal  lamp. — He  starts — and  suddenly 
Tremendous  thunders  echo  through  the  halls. 
While  ruin's  hideous  crash  bursts  o'er  the  affrighted  walls. 

Dread  Horror  seizes  on  her  sinking  heart, 
A  mortal  chillness  shudders  at  her  breast ; 
Her  soul  shrinks  fainting  from  Death's  icy  dart, 
The  groan  scarce  utter'd  dies  but  half-exprest, 
And  down  she  sinks  in  deadly  swoon  opprest ; 
But  when,  at  length,  awakening  from  her  trance 
The  terrors  of  her  fate  stand  all  contest,    . 
In  vain  she  casts  around  her  timid  glance, 
The  rudely  frowning  scenes  her  former  joys  enhance. 

No  traces  of  those  joys,  alas !  remain ; 
A  desert  solitude  alone  appears. 
No  verdant  shade  relieves  the  sandy  plain, 
The  wide-spread  waste  no  gentle  fountain  cheers, 
One  barren  face  the  dreary  prospect  wears ; 
Nought  through  the  vast  horizon  meets  her  eye 
To  calm  the  dismal  tumult  of  her  fears. 
No  trace  of  human  habitation  nigh, 
A  sandy  wild  beneath,  above  a  threatening  sky. 

68 


ANN  RADCLIFFE. 


TO  MELANCHOLY. 


Spirit  of  love  and  sorrow,-^-hail ! 

Thy  solemn  voice  from  far  I  hear, 
IMingling  with  Evening's  flying  gale, 

Hail,  witli  this  sadly-pleasing  tear! 


Oh,  at  this  still,  this  lonely  hour, 

Tliine  own  sweet  hour  of  closing  dav, 

Awake  thy  lute,  whose  charmful  power 
Shall  call  up  Fancy  to  obey; 


TO  MELANCHOLY. 

To  paint  the  wild  romantic  dream, 
That  meets  the  poet's  musing  eye, 

As  on  the  bank  of  shadowy  stream 
He  breathes  to  her  the  fervid  sigh. 

0  lonely  spirit !    let  thy  song 

Lead  me  through  all  thy  sacred  haunt ; 
The  minster's  moonlight  aisles  along, 

Where  spectres  raise  the  midnight  chaunt. 

1  hear  their  dirges  faintly  swell ! 
Then  sink  at  once  in  silence  drear, 

While,  from  the  pillar'd  cloister's  cell, 
Dimly  their  gliding  forms  appear ! 

Lead  where  the  pine- woods  wave  on  high. 
Whose  pathless  sod  is  darkly  seen. 

As  the  cold  moon,  with  trembling  eye, 
Darts  her  long  beams  the  leaves  betwesr. 

Lead  to  the  mountain's  dusky  head. 
Where,  far  below,  in  shades  profound, 

Wide  forests,  plains,  and  hamlets  spread, 
And  sad  the  chimes  of  vesper  sound. 

Or  guide  me  where  the  dashing  oar 
Just  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  vale : 

As  slow  it  tracks  the  winding  shore. 
To  meet  the  ocean's  distant  sail : 

To  pebbly  banks  that  Neptune  laves. 
With  measur'd  surges,  loud  and  deep ; 

Where  the  dark  cliif  bends  o'er  the  waves, 
And  wild  the  winds  of  Autumn  sweep. 

There  pause  at  midnight's  spectred  hour. 
And  list  the  long-resounding  gale ; 

And  catch  the  fleeting  moonlight's  power 
O'er  foaming  seas  and  distant  sail. 

70 


A2JN  RADCLIFFE. 


SONG  OF  A  SPIRIT. 


In  the  sightless  air  I  dwell, 

On  the  sloping  sunbeams  play ; 
Delve  the  cavern's  inmost  cell, 

Where  never  yet  did  daylight  stray. 

I  dive  beneath  the  green  sea  waves,  ** 

And  gambol  in  the  briny  deeps ; 
Skim  every  shore  that  Neptune  laves, 

From  Lapland's  plains  to  India's  steeps. 

Oft  I  mount  AA-lth  rapid  force, 

Above  the  wide  earth's  shadowy  zone, 

Follow  the  day-star's  flaming  course. 

Through  realms  of  space  to  thought  unknown ; 

And  listen  to  celestial  sounds 

That  swell  in  air,  unheard  of  men, 

As  I  watch  my  nightly  rounds 
O'er  woody  stpep  and  silent  glen. 

Under  the  shade  of  waving  trees. 

On   the  green  bank  of  fountain  clear, 

At  pensive  eve  I  sit  at  ease, 

Wliilc  dying  music  murmurs  near. 

And  oft,  on  point  of  airy  clift 

That  hangs  upon  the  western  main, 

I  watch  the  gay  tints  passing  swift. 
And   twilight  veil  the  licpiid  plain. 

71 


SONG  OF  A  SPIRIT. 

Then,  when  the  breeze  has  sunk  away, 
And  Ocean  scarce  is  heard  to  lave, 

For  me  the  sea-nymphs  softly  play 
Their  dulcet  shells  beneath  the  wave. 

Their  dulcet  shells! — I  hear  them  now; 

Slow  swells  the  strain  upon  mine  ear; 
Now  faintly  falls — now  warbles  low, 

Till  rapture  melts  into  a  tear. 

The  ray  that  sUvers  o'er  the  dew. 

And  trembles  through  the  leafy  shade, 

And  tints  the  scene  with  softer  hue, 
Calls  me  to  rove  the  lonely  glade ; 

Or  hie  me  to  some  ruin'd  tower. 
Faintly  shown  by  moonlight  gleam, 

AVTiere  the  lone  wanderer  OAvns  my  power, 
In  shadows  dire  that  substance  seem  ; 

In  thrilling  sounds  that  murmur  woe. 
And  pausing  silence  make  more  dread; 

In  music  breathing  from  below 

Sad,  solemn  strains,  that  wake  the  dead. 

Unseen  I  move — unknown  am  fear'd  ; — 
Fancy's  wildest  dreams  I  weave ; 

And  oft  by  bards  my  voice  is  heard 
To  die  along  the  gales  of  eve. 


72 


ANNA  LETITIA  BARBAULD. 

A   SUMMER   EVENING'S   MEDITATION 

"Oue  sun  by  day,  by  night  ten  thousand  shine."— Young. 

'Tls  past, — the  sultry  tyrant  of  the  South 
Has  spent  his  short-Iiv'd  rage ;    more  grateful  hours 

73 


A  SUMMER  EVENING'S  MEDITATION. 

Move  silent  on ;    the  skies  no  more  repel 
The  dazzled  sight,  but,  with  mild  maiden  beams 
Of  temper'd  lustre,  court  the  cherish'd  eye 
To  wander  o'er  their  sphere ;    where  hung  aloi'L 
Dian's  bright  crescent,  like  a  silver  bow. 
New  strung  in  heaven,  lifts  its  beamy  horns 
Impatient  for  the  night,  and  seems  to  push 
Her  brother  down  the   sky.      Fair  Venus  shines 
Even  in  the  eye  of  day ;    with  sweetest  beam 
Propitious  shines,  and  shakes  a  trembling  flood 
Of  soften'd  radiance  with  her  dewy  locks. 
The  shadows  spread  apace ;    while  meeken'd  Eve, 
Her  cheek  yet  warm  with  blushes,  slow  retires 
Through  the  Hesperian  gardens  of  the  West, 
And  shuts  the  gates  of  Day.     'Tis  now  the  hour 
Wlien  Contemplation,  from  her  sunless  haunts, 
The  cool  damp  grotto,  or  the  lonely  depth 
Of  unpierc'd  woods,  where  wrapt  in  solid  shade 
She  mus'd  away  the  gaudy  hours  of  noon, 
And  fed  on  thoughts  unripen'd  by  the  sun, 
Moves  forward ;    and  with  radiant  finger  points 
To  yon  blue  concave  swell'd  by  breath  divine, 
Where,  one  by  one,  the  living  eyes  of  heaven 
AAvake,  quick  kindling  o'er  the  face  of  ether 
One  boundless  blaze ;    ten  thousand  trembling  fires, 
And  dancing  lustres,  where  th'  unsteady  eye, 
Restless  and  dazzled,  wanders  unconfin'd 
O'er  all  this  field  of  glories ;    spacious  field, 
And  worthy  of  the  Master :    He,  whose  hand 
With  hieroglyphics  elder  than  the  Nile 
Inscribed  the  mystic  tablet ;    hung  on  high 
To  public  gaze,  and  said,  Adore,  O  man ! 
The  finger  of  thy  God.     From  what  pure  wells 
Of  milky  light,  what  soft  o'erflowing  urn. 
Are  all  these  lamps  so  fill'd? — these  friendly  lamps, 
For  ever  streaming  o'er  the  azure  deep 
To  point  our  path,  and  light  us  to  our  home. 

74 


ANNA  LETITIA  BARBAULD. 

How  soft  thej  slide  along  their  lucid  spheres ! 

And,  silent  as  the  foot  of  Time,  fultil 

Their  destin'd  courses.     Nature's  self  is  liush'd, 

And,  but  a  scatter'd  leaf,  Avhich  rustles  through 

The  thick-wove  foliage,  not  a  sound  is  heard 

To  break  the  midnight  air ;    though  the  rais'd  ear. 

Intensely  listening,  drinks  in  every  breath. 

How  deep  the  silence,  yet  how  loud  the  praise! 

But  are  they  silent  all?    or  is  there  not 

A  tongue  in  every  star  that  talks  with  man, 

And  woos  hiai  to  be  wise  ?    nor  woos  in  vain  : 

This  dead  of  midnight  is  the  noon  of  thought, 

And  Wisdom  mounts  her  zenith  with  the  stars. 

At  this  still  hour  the  self-collected  soul 

Turns  inward,  and  beholds  a  stranger  there 

Of  high  descent,  and  more  than  mortal  rank  ; 

An  embryo  God  ;    a  spark  of  fire  divine. 

Which  must  burn  on  for  ages,  when  the  sun 

(Fair  transitory  creature  of  a  day !) 

Has  clos'd  his  golden  eye,  and,  wi'apt  in  shades, 

F'orgets  his  wonted  journey  through  the  East. 

Ye  citadels  of  light,  and  seats  of  Gods  ! 
Perhaps  my  future  home,  from  whence  the  soul, 
Revolving  periods  past,  may  oft  look  back. 
With  recollected  tenderness,  on  all 
The  various  busy  scenes  she  left  below. 
Its  deep-laid  projects  and  its  strange  events. 
As  on  some  fond  and  doting  tale  that  sooth'd 
Her  infont  hours — O  be  it  lawful  now 
To  tread  the  hallowM   circle  of  your  courts. 
And    with   unite  wonder  :uid   (loliirhtcd  awe 
Approach  your  burning  conlines.      Seized  in  thought. 
On   Fancy's  wild  and  roving  A\-ing  I  sail. 
From  the  green  borders  of  the  peopled  earth, 
And  the  pale  moon,  her  duteous,  fair  attendant ; 
From  solitary  Mars ;  from  the  vast  orb 


vo 


A  SUMMER  EVENING'S  MEDITATION. 

Of  Jupiter,  whose  huge  gigantic  bulk 

Dances  in  ether  Uke  the  lightest  leaf; 

To  the  dim  verge,  the  suburbs  of  the  system, 

Where  cheerless  Saturn  'midst  his  wat'ry  moons 

Girt  with  a  lucid  zone,  in  gloomy  pomp. 

Sits  like  an  exiled  monarch :    fearless  thence 

I  launch  into  the  trackless  deeps  of  space, 

Where,  burning  round,  ten  thousand  suns  appear, 

Of  elder  beam,  >vhich  ask  no  leave  to  shine 

Of  our  terrestrial  star,  nor  borrow  light 

From  the  proud  regent  of  our  scanty  day ; 

Sons  of  the  morning,  first-born  of  creation. 

And  only  less  than  IIui  who  marks  their  track, 

And  guides  their  fiery  wheels.     Here  must  I  sto}). 

Or  is  there  aught  beyond?     What  hand  unseen 

Impels  me  onward  through  the  glowing  orbs 

Of  habitable  nature,  far  remote. 

To  the  dread  confines  of  eternal  night, 

To  solitudes  of  waste  unpeopled  space. 

The  deserts  of  creation,  wide  and  wild ; 

Where  embryo  systems  and  unkindled  suns 

Sleep  in  the  Avomb  of  chaos?     Fancy  droops, 

And  Thought,  astonish' d,  stops  her  bold  career. 

But  oh,  thou  mighty  Mind !    whose  powerful  word 

Said,  Thus  let  all  things  be,  and  thus  they  were. 

Where  shall  I  seek  thy  presence?    how  unblam'd 

Invoke  thy  dread  perfection? 

Have  the  broad  eye-lids  of  the  morn  beheld  thee  ? 

Or  does  the  beamy  shoulder  of  Oiion 

Support  thy  throne?     Oh,  look  with  pity  down 

On  erring,  guilty  man  ;    not  in  thy  names 

Of  terror  clad ;  not  with  those  thunders  arm'd 

That  conscious  Sinai  felt,  when  fear  appall'd 

The  scatter'd  tribes ;    thou  hast  a  gentler  voice. 

That  whispers  comfort  to  the  swelling  heart, 

Abash'd,  yet  longing  to  behold  her  Maker! 


76 


ANNA  LETITIA  BARBAULD. 

But  now  my  soul,  unus'd  to  stretch  her  powers 

In  flight  so  daring,  drops  her  weary  wing, 

And  seeks  again  the  known  accustom'd  spot, 

Drest  up  with  sun,  and  shade,  and  lawns,  and  streams, 

A  mansion  fair  and  spacious  for  its  guests, 

And  all  replete  with  wonders.     Let  me  here, 

Content  and  grateful,  wait  th'  appointed  time, 

And  ripen  for  the  skies :    the  hour  will  come 

When  all  these  splendours  bursting  on  my  sight 

Shall  stand  unveil'd,  and  to  my  ravish'd  sense 

Unlock  the  glories  of  the  world  unknowm. 


A  PETITION. 


If  the  soft  hand  of  -winning  Pleasure  leads 
By  living  waters,  and  through  flowery  meads, 
Where  all  is  smiling,  tranquil,  and  serene, 
And  vernal  beauty  paints  the  flattering  scene. 
Oh!    teach  me  to  elude  each  latent  snare. 
And  whisper  to  my  sliding  heart, — Bev/are ! 
With  caution  let  me  hear  the  Syren's  voice. 
And  doubtful,  with  a  trembling  heart  rejoice. 
If  friendless  in  a  vale  of  tears  I  stray, 
Where  briers  wound,  and  thorns  perplex  my  way. 
Still  let  my  steady  soul  thy  goodness  see. 
And,  with  strong  confidence,  lay  hold  on  Thee ; 
With  equal  eye  my  various  lot  receive, 
Resign'd  to  die,  or  resolute  to  live ; 
Prepar  d  to  kiss  the  sceptre  or  the  rod. 
While  God  is  seen  in  all,  and  all  in  God. 


HANNAH  MORE. 


FLORIO  AND  HIS  FRIEND 


TWO  PORTRAITS. 


Florid,  a  youth  of  gay  renown, 
Who  figur'd  much  about  the  town, 
Had  pass'd,  with  general  approbation, 
The  modish  forms  of  education ; 

78 


HANNAH  MORE. 

Knew  what  was  proper  to  be  known, 
Th'  establish'd  jargon  of  Bon-ton ; 
Had  learnt,  with  very  moderate  reading, 
The  whole  new  system  of  good  breeding : 
He  studied  to  be  cold  and  rude, 
Though  native  feeling  would  intrude : 
Unlucky  sense  and  sympathy 
Spoilt  the  vain  thing  he  strove  to  be. 
For  Florio  was  not  meant  by  nature, 
A  silly  or  a  worthless  creature : 
He  had  a  heart  dispos'd  to  feel, 
Had  life  and  spirit,  taste  and  zeal ; 
"Was  handsome,  generous ;    but,  by  fate, 
Predestin'd  to  a  large  estate ! 
Hence,  all  that  grac'd  his  op'ning  days 
Was  marr'd  by  pleasure,  spoifd  by  praise. 
The  Destinv,  who  wove  the  thread 
Of  Florio's  being,  sigh'd,  and  said, 
"  Poor  youth  !    this  cumbrous  twist  of  gold. 
More  than  my  shuttle  well  can  hold, 
For  which  thy  anxious  fathers  toil'd. 
Thy  white  and  even  thread  has  spoil' d : 
'Tis  this  shall  warp  thy  pliant  youth 
From  sense,  simplicity,  and  truth ; 
Thy  erring  fire,  by  wealth  misled, 
Shall  scatter  pleasures  round  thy  head, 
When  wholesome  discipline's  control 
Should  brace  the  sinews  of  thy  soul ; 
Coldly  thou'lt  toil  for  learning's  prize. 
For  why  should  he  that's  rich  be  wise?" 
The  gracious  Master  of  mankind. 
Who  knew  us  vain,  corrupt,  and  blind. 
In  mercy,  though  in  anger,  said. 
That  man  should  earn  his  daily  bread ; 
His  lot  inaction  renders  worse, 
^V^lilc  labour  mitigates  the  curse ; 
The  idle  life's  worst  burdens  bear, 

79 


FLORIO  AND  HIS  FRIEND. 

And  meet,  what  toil  escapes,  despair! 
Forgive,  nor  lay  the  fault  on  me, 
This  mixture  of  mythology ; 
The  Muse  of  Paradise  has  deign'd 
AVith  truth  to  mingle  fables  feign'd ; 
And  though  the  Bard  that  would  attain 
The  glories,  Milton,  of  thy  strain, 
Will  never  reach  thy  style  or  thoughts, 
He  may  be  like  thee — in  thy  faults ! 

Exhausted  Flokio,  at  the  age 
When  youth  should  rush  on  glory's  stage, 
When  life  should  open  fresh  and  new, 
And  ardent  Hope  her  schemes  pursue ; 
Of  youthful  gaiety  bereft. 
Had  scarc^e  an  unbroach'd  pleasure  left ; 
He  found  already  to  his  cost. 
The  shining  gloss  of  life  was  lost ; 
And  Pleasure  was  so  coy  a  prude. 
She  fled  the  more,  the  more  pursued ; 
Or  if  o'ertaken  and  caress' d. 
He  loath'd  and  left  her  when  possess'd. 
But  Florio  knew  the  World  ;    that  science 
Sets  sense  and  learning  at  defiance  ; 
He  thought  the  World  to  him  was  known, 
Whereas  he  only  knew  the  Town ; 
In  men  this  blunder  still  you  find. 
All  think  their  little  set — Mankind. 
.  Though  high  renown  the  youth  had  gain'd^ 
No  flagrant  crimes  his  life  had  stain'd, 
No  tool  of  falsehood,  slave  of  passion. 
But  spoilt  by  Custom,  and  the  Fashion. 
Though  known  among  a  certain  set, 
He  did  not  like  to  be  in  debt ; 
He  shudder'd  at  the  dicer's  box. 
Nor  thought  it  very  heterodox 
Tliat  tradesmen  should  be  sometimes  paid, 
And  bargains  kept  as  well  as  made. 

80 


HANNAH  MORE. 

His  growing  credit,  as  a  sinner, 
Was  that  he  lik'd  to  spoil  a  dinner ; 
Made  pleasure  and  made  business  wait ; 
And  still,  by  system,  came  too  late  ; 
Yet  'twas  a  hopeful  indication 
On  which  to  found  a  reputation : 
Small  habits,  well  pursued,  betimes 
May  reach  the  dignity  of  crimes ; 
And  who  a  juster  claim  preferr'd 
Than  one  who  always  broke  his  word  ? 
His  mornings  were  not  spent  in  vice, 
'Twas  lounging,  sauntering,  eating  ice ; 
Walk  up  and  down  St.  James's  Street, 
Full  fifty  times  the  youth  you'd  meet : 
He  hated  cai'ds,  detested  drinking, 
But  stroU'd  to  shim  the  toil  of  thinking; 
'Twas  doing  not/tin^  was  his  curse, — 
Is  there  a  vice  can  plague  us  Avorse  ? 
The  wretch  who  digs  the  mine  for  bread, 
Or  ploughs,  that  others  may  be  fed. 
Feels  less  fatigue  than  that  decreed 
To  him  who  cannot  think,  or  read. 
Not  all  the  peril  of  temptations. 
Not  all  the  conflict  of  the  passions, 
Can  quench  the  spark  of  Glory's  flame, 
Or  quite  extinguish  Virtue's  name. 
Like  the  true  taste  for  genuine  saunter. 
Like  Sloth,  the  soul's  most  dire  enchanter. 
The  active  fires  that  stir  the  breast 
Her  poj)pies  charm  to  fatal  rest ; 
The)/  rule  in  short  and  quick  succession. 
But  Si.OTH  keeps  one  long,  fast  possession : 
Ambition's  reign  is  quickly  clos'd, 
Th'   usurper  Rage  is  soon  depos'd ; 
Intemperance,  where  there's  no  temptation, 
Makes  voluntary  abdication  ; 
Of  other  tyrants  short  the  strife, 

81 


FLORIO  AND  HIS  FRIEND. 

But  Indolence  is  king  for  life : 
The  despot  twists,  with  soft  control, 
Eternal  fetters  round  the  soul. 

Yet  though  so  polish'd  Florio's  breeding, 
Think  him  not  ignorant  of  reading : 
For  he,  to  keep  him  from  the  vapours, 
Subscrib'd  at  Hookham's,  saw  the  papers ; 
Was  deep  in  poet's-corner  wit ; 
Knew  what  Avas  in  italics  writ ; 
Explain' d  fictitious  names  at  will ; 
Each  gutted  syllable  could  fill. 
There  oft,  in  paragraphs,  his  name 
Gave  symptom  sweet  of  growing  fame ; 
Though  yet  they  only  serv'd  to  hint 
That  Flokio  lov'd  to  see  in  print 
His  ample  buckles'  alter'd  shape. 
His  buttons  chang'd,  his  varying  cape  ; 
And  many  a  standard  phrase  Avas  his 
Might  rival  bore,  or  banish  quiz. 
The  man  avIio  grasps  this  young  renown, 
And  early  starts  for  Fashion's  crown. 
In  time  that  glorious  prize  may  wield, 
Which  clubs  and  ev'n  Newmarket  yield. 

He  studied  while  he  dress'd,  for,  true  'tis, 
He  read   Compendiums,  Extracts,  Beauties, 
Abreges,  Dictionnaires,  Becueils, 
Mercures,  Journaux,  Extraits,  and  Feidlles : 
No  work  in  substance  now  is  follow'd. 
The  chemic  extract  only's  swallow' d. 
He  lik'd  those  literary  cooks 
Who  skim  the  cream  of  others'   books ; 
And  ruin  half  an  author's  graces 
By  plucking  bon  mots  from  their  places. 
He  wonders  any  Avriting  sells 
But  these  spic'd  mushrooms  and  morells. 
His  palate  Avorks  alone  can  touch 
Where  every  mouthful  is  bonne  bouclie. 

82 


HANNAH  MORE. 

Some  phrase  that  A\ith  the  public  took 
Was  all  he  read  of  any  book ; 
For  plan,  detail,  arrangement,  system, 
He  let  them  go,  and  ndver  miss'd  'em. 
Of  each  new  Flay  he  saw  a  part. 
And  all  the  anas  had  by  heart : 
He  found  whatever  they  produce 
Is  fit  for  conversation-use  ; 
Learning  so  ready  for  display, 
A  page  would  prime  him  for  a  day: 
They  cram  not  with  a  mass  of  knowledge. 
Which  smacks  of  toil,  and  smells  of  college, 
Which  in  the  memory  useless  lies, 
Or  only  makes  men — good  and  wise. 
This  might  have  merit  once,  indeed. 
But  now  for  other  ends  Ave  read. 
A  friend  he  had,  Bellario  hight, 
A  reasoning,  reading,  learned  wight ; 
At  least,  Avith  men  of  Florio's  breeding, 
He  was  a  prodig}^  of  reading. 
He  knew  each  stale  and  vapid  lie 
In  tomes  of  French  ])hilosophy ; 
And  these,  Ave  fairly  may  presume, 
From  Pyrriio  down  to  David  Hu.aie, 
'Twere  dithcult  to  single  out 
A  man  more  full  of  shallow  doubt : 
He  knew  the  little  sceptic  prattle, 
The  sophist's  paltry  arts  of  battle ; 
Talk'd  graA'ely  of  th'   Atomic  dance. 
Of  moral  fitness,  fate,  and  chance ; 
Admir'd  the  system  of  Lucretius, 
AVhose  matchless  verse  makes  nonsense  specious ! 
To  this  his  doctrine  OAves  its  merits, 
Like  pois'nous  reptiles  kept  in   spirits; 
Though  sceptics  dull  his  schemes  rehearse. 
Who  haAc  not  souls   to  taste  his  verse. 
Bellario  founds  his  reputation 
83 


FLORIO  AND  HIS  FRIEND. 

On  dry,  stale  jokes  about  Creation ; 
Would  prove,  by  argument  circuitous, 
The  combination  was  fortuitous. 
Swore  priests'  whole  trade  was  to  deceive, 
And  prey  on  bigots  who  believe ; 
With  bitter  ridicule  could  jeer, 
And  had  the  true  free-thinking  sneer. 
Grave  arguments  he  had  in  store. 
Which  had  been  answer'd  o'er  and  o'er; 
And  us'd,  with  wondrous  penetration. 
The  trite,  old  trick  of  folse  citation ; 
From  ancient  authors  fond  to  quote 
A  phrase,  or  thought,  they  never  wrote. 
Upon  his  highest  shelf  there  stood 
The  Classics,  neatly  cut  in  wood ; 
And  in  a  more  commodious  station. 
You  found  them  in  a  French  translation : 
He  swears,  'tis  from  the  Greek  he  quotes, 
But  keeps  the  French — just  for  the  notes. 
He  worshipp'd  certain  modern  names 
Who  history  write  in  epigrams. 
In  pointed  periods,  shining  phrases, 
And  all  the  small  poetic  daisies 
Which  crowd  the  pert  and  florid  style, 
Wliere  fact  is  dropt  to  raise  a  smile ; 
Wliere  notes  indecent  or  profane 
Serve  to  7-aise  doubts,  but  not  explain  : 
Wliere  all  is  spangle,  glitter,  show. 
And  truth  is  overlaid  below: 
Arts  scorn'd  by  History's  sober  Muse, 
Arts  Clarendon  disdain'd  to  use. 
Whate'er  the  subject  of  debate, 
'Twas  larded  still  with  sceptic  prate  ; 
Begin  whatever  theme  you  will, 
In   unbelief  he  lands  you  still : 
The  good,  with  shame  I  speak  it,  feci 
•Not  half  this  proselyting  zeal : 

84 


HANNAH  MORE. 

While  cold  their  Master's  cause  to  own, 
Content  to  go  to  hcav'n  alone, 
The  infidel,  in  liberal  trim,  ♦ 

Would  carry  all  the  world  with  him  ; 
Would  trust  his  wife,  friend,  kindred,  nation, 
Mankind — with  what  ?     Annihilation. 

Though  Flokio  did  not  quite  believe  him, 
He  thought,  why  should  a  friend  deceive  him? 
Much  as  he  prized  Bellario's  wit, 
He  lik'd  not  all  his  notions  yet ; 
He  thought  him  charming,  pleasant,  odd, 
But  hop'd  one  might  believe  in  God ; 
Yet  such  the  charms  that  grac'd  his  tongue, 
He  knew  not  how  to  think  him  wTon". 
Though  Florio  tried  a  thousand  ways,     ^ 
Truth's  insuppressive  torch  would  blaze: 
Where  once  her  flame  has  burnt,  I  doubt 
If  ever  it  go  fairly  out. 

Yet,  under  great  Bellario's  care, 
He  gain'd  each  day  a  better  air; 
With  many  a  leader  of  renown, 
Deep  in  the  learning  of  the  Town, 
AVho  never  other  science  knew. 
But  Avhat  from  that  prime  source  they  drew; 
Pleas'd,  to  the  Opera  they  repair, 
To  get  recruits  of  knowledge  there ; 
Mythology  gain  at  a  glauce, 
And  learn  the  Classics  from  a  dance  : 
In  Ovid  they  ne'er  car'd  a  groat 
How  far'd  the  vent'rous  Argonaut; 
Yet  charm' d  they  see  Medea  rise 
On  fiery  dragons  to  the  skies. 
For  Dido,  though  they  never  knew  he^ 
As  Maro's  magic  pencil  drew  her. 
Faithful  and  foud,  and  broken-hearted. 
Her  pious  A'agabond  departed. 
Yet,  for  DiDONE  how  they  roar  I 


And  Cara  !    Cara  !    loud  encore. 

One  taste  Bellario's  soul  possess'd, 
The  master-passion  of  his  breast ; 
It  was  not  one  of  those  frail  joys, 
Which,  by  possession,  quickly  cloys ; 
This  bliss  was  solid,  constant,  true, 
'Twas  action,  and  'twas  passion  too  , 
For  though  the  business  might  be  finisii'd, 

86 


HANNAH  MORE. 

The  pleasure  scarcely  was  diminisli'd ; 

Did  he  ride  out,  or  sit,  or  walk, 

He  liv'd  it  o'er  again  in  talk; 

Prolong'd  the  fugitive  delight, 

In  words  by  day,  in  dreams  by  night. 

'Twas  eating  did  his  soul  allure, 

A  deep,  keen,  modish  Epicure ; 

Though  once  this  name,  as  I  opine. 

Meant  not  such  men  as  live  to  dine ; 

Yet  all  our  modern  Wits  assure  us. 

That's  all  they  know  of  Epicdrus  : 

They  fondly  fancy,  that  repletion 

AVas  the  chief  good  of  that  fam'd  Grecian. 

To  live  in  gardens  full  of  flowers, 

And  talk  philosophy  in  bowers. 

Or,  in  the  covert  of  a  wood. 

To  descant  on  the  sovereign  good, 

Might  be  the  notion  of  their  founder. 

But  they  have  notions  vastly  sounder: 

Their  bolder  standards  they  erect. 

To  form  a  more  substantial  sect ; 

Old  Epicurus  Avould  not  oAvn  'em, 

A  Dinner  is  their  summum  honum; 

More  like  you'll  find  such  sparks  as  these 

To  Epicurus'  deities ; 

Like  them,  they  mix  not  with  affairs. 

But  loll  and  laugh  at  human  cares. 

To  beaux  this  difference  is  allow'd. 

They  choose  a  sofa  for  a  cloud. 

Bellario  had  cmbrac'd  \\ith  glee 

This  practical  philosophy. 


87 


BOWLES. 
RETURN  TO  OXFORD. 

CHERWELL. 

Chekwell!    how  pleased  along  thy  willow'd  edge 
Erewhile  I  stray'd ;    or  when  the  morn  began 
To  tinge  aloft  the  turret's  golden  fan, 

Or  Evening  glimmer'd  o'er  the  sighing  sedge, 

And  now,  reclin'd  upon  thy  banks  once  more, 
I  bid  the  pipe  farewell,  and  that  sad  lay 
Whose  music  on  my  melancholy  way 

I  woo'd,  beneath  thy  willows  waving  hoar. 

Seeking  to  rest — till  the  returning  sun 

Of  joy  beam  out,  as  when  Heaven's  humid  bov/ 
.Shines  silent  on  the  passing  storm  below ; 

Whate'er  betide,  yet  something  have  I  won 

Of  solace,  that  may  bear  me  on  serene, 

Till  Eve's  dim  hand  shall  close  the  sinking  scene. 


ON  THE  RHINE. 

'TwAS  morn,  and  beautiful  the  mountains'  brow, — 
Hung  with  the  clusters  of  the  bending  vine — 
Shone  in  the  early  light,  when  on  the  Rhine 

We  sail'd,  and  heard  the  waters  round  the  prow 

In  murmurs  parting ;    varying  as  we  go, 

Rocks  after  rocks  come  forward  and  retire, 
As  some  grey  convent-wall,  or  sunlit  spire 

Starts  up,  along  the  banks,  unfolding  slow. 

88 


Here  castles,  like  the  prisons  of  despair, 

Frown  as  we  pass ! — There,  on  the  vineyard's  side. 

The  bursting  sunshine  pours  its  streaming  tide ; 
While  Grief,  forgetful  amid  scenes  so  feir, 
Counts  not  the  hours  of  a  long  summer's  day. 
Nor  heeds  how  fast  the  prospect  winds  away. 

89 


THE  CELL  OF  THE  MISSIONARY. 


THE  CELL  OF  THE  MISSIONARY.  . 

Fronting  the  ocean,  but  beyond  the  ken 

Of  public  view,  and  sounds  of  murm'ring  men, — 

Of  unhewn  roots  compos'd,  and  gnai'led  wood, 

A  small  and  rustic  Oratory  stood : 

Upon  its  roof  of  reeds  appear'd  a  cross, 

The  porch  within  was  lin'd  with  mantling  moss  ; 

A  crucifix  and  hour-glass,  on  each  side — 

One  to  admonish  seem'd,  and   One  to  guide ; 

This,  to  impress  how  soon  life's  race  is  o'er; 

And  that,  to  lift  our  hopes  where  time  shall  be  no  more. 

O'er  the  rude  porch,  with  wild  and  gadding  stray. 

The  clust'ring  copu  weav'd  its  trellis  gay: 

Two  mossy  pines,  high  bending,  interwove 

Their  aged  and  fantastic  arms  above. 

In  front,  amid  the  gay  surrounding  flowers, 

A  dial  counted  the  departing  hours. 

On  which  the  sweetest  light  of  summer  shone, — 

A  rude  and  brief  inscription  mark'd  the  stone  : — 

"To  count,  with  passing  shade,  the  hours, 
I  plac'd  the  dial  'mid  the  flowers. 
That,  one  by  one,  came  forth,  and  died. 
Blooming,  and  with' ring,  round  its  side. 
Mortal,  let  the  sight  impart 
Its  pensive  moral  to  thy  heart!" 

Just  heard  to  trickle  through  a  covert  near, 
And  soothing,  -with  perpetual  lapse,  the  ear, 
A  fount,  like  rain-drops,  filter'd  through  the  stone, — 
And,  bright  as  amber,  on  the  shallows  shone. 
Intent  his  fairy  pastime  to  pursue. 
And,  gem-like,  hovering  o'er  the  violets  blue, 

90 


BOWLES. 

The  humming-bii-d,  here,  its  unceaging  song 

Heedlessly  murmured  all  the  siunnier  long. 

And  Avhen  the  Avinter  came,  reth-'d  to  rest,  » 

And  from  the  mjTtles  hnng  its  trembling  nest. 

No  sounds  of  a  conflicting  Avorld  were  near ; 

The  noise  of  ocean  faintly  met  the  ear, 

That  seem'd,  as  sunk  to  rest  the  noon-tide  blast^ 

But  dying  sounds  of  passions  that  were  past; 

Or  closing  anthems,  -when,  far  off,  expire 

The  lessening  echoes  of  the  distant  choir. 

Here,  every  human  sorrow  hush'd  to  rest. 
His  pale  hands  meekly  cross'd  upon  his  breast,  ■* 

Anselmo  sat :    the  sun,  with  west' ring  ray. 
Just  touch'd  his  temples,  and  his  locks  of  grey. 
There  was  no  Avorldly  feeling  in  his  eye ; — 
The  world  to  him  "was  as  a  thing  gone  by." 

Now,  all  his  features  lit,  he  rais'd  his  look, 
Then  bent  it  thoughtful,  and  unclasp'd  the  book  ; 
And  whilst  the  hour-glass  shed  its  silent  sand, 
A  tame  opossum  lick'd  his  withered  hand. 
That  sweetest  light  of  slow-declining  day. 
Which  through  the  trellis  pour'd  its  slanting  ray, 
Resting  a  moment  on  his  few  grey  hairs, 
Seem'd  light  from  heaven  sent  down  to  bless  his  pray'rs. 

When  the  trump  echo'd  to  the  quiet  spot. 
He  thought  upon  the  world,  but  mourn'd  it  not ; 
Enough  if  his  meek  wisdom  could  control. 
And  bend  to  mercy,  one  proud  soldier's  soul ; 
Enough,  if  while  these  distant  scenes  he  trod, 
He  led  one  erring  Indian  to  his  G(3d. 


91 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  OLD  INDIAN. 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  OLD  INDIAN. 


Beneath  aerial  cliffs,  and  glittering  snows, 

The  rush-roof  of  an  aged  warrior  rose, 

Chief  of  the  mountain   tribes :    high,  overhead. 

The  Andes,  wild  and  desolate,  were  spread, 

Where  cold  Sierras  shot  their  icy  spires. 

And  Chillan  trail'd  its  smoke,  and  smould'ring  fires. 

A  glen  beneath — a  lonely  spot  of  rest — 

Hung,  scai'ce  discover'd,  like  an  eagle's  nest. 

Summer  was  in  its  prime ; — the  parrot-flockii 

Darken' d  the  passing  sunshine  on  the  rocks  -, 

The  chrysomel  and  purple  butterfly. 

Amid  the  clear  blue  light,  are  wand'ring  by ; 

The  humming-bird,  along  the  myrtle  bow'rs. 

With  twinkling  wing,  is  spinning  o'er  the  flow'rs, 

The  woodpecker  is  heard  with  busy  bill, 

The  mock-bird  sings — and  all  beside  is  still. 

And  look !    the  cataract,  that  bursts  so  high 

As  not  to  mar  the  deep  tranquillity, 

The  tumult  of  its  dashing  fall  suspends, 

And,  stealing  drop  by  drop,  in  mist  descends ; 

Through  whose  illumin'd  spray  and  sprinkling  dews, 

Shine  to  the  adverse  sun  the  broken  rainbow  hues. 

Check'ring,  with  partial  shade,  the  beams  of  noon, 
And  arching  the  grey  rock  with  A^•ild  festoon, 
Here,  its  gay  net-work,  and  fantastic  twine. 
The  purple  cogul  threads  from  pine  to  pine, 
And  oft,  as  the  fresh  airs  of  morning  breatlie. 
Dips  its  long  tendrils  in  the  stream  beneath. 
There,  through  the  trunks,  with  moss  and  lichens  white, 
The  sunshine  darts  its  interrupted  light, 

92 


BOWLES. 

And,  'mid  the  cedai's'  darksome  boughs,  illumes. 

With  instant  touch,  the  lori's  scarlet  plumes. 

So  smiles  the  scene ; — but  can  its  smiles  impart  . 

Aught  to  console  yon  mourning  warrior's  heart  i 

He  heeds  not  now,  when,  beautifully  bright. 

The  humming-bird  is  circling  in  his  sight ; 

Nor  e'en,  above  his  head,  when  air  is  still, 

Hears  the  green  woodpeckei-'s  resounding  bill ; 

But,  gazing  on  the  rocks  and  mountains  wild, 

Rock  after  rock,  in  glittering  masses,  pil'd 

To  the  volcano's  cone,  that  shoots  so  high 

Grey  smoke,  whose  column  stains  the  cloudles'-.  sky,    ^ 

He  cries,  "  Oh !    if  thy  spirit  yet  be  fled 

To  the  pale  kingdoms  of  the  shadowy  dead, — 

In  yonder  track  of  purest  light  above. 

Dear,  long-lost  object  of  a  father's  love, 

Dost  thou  abide?    or,  like  a  shadow  come, 

Circling  the  scenes  of  thy  remember'd  home, 

And  passing  with  the  breeze"?    or,  in  the  beam 

Of  evening,  light  the  desert  mountain-stream? 

Or  at  deep  midnight  are  thine  accents  heard. 

In  the  sad  notes  of  that  melodious  bird, 

Which,  as  we  listen  with  mysterious  dread, 

Brings  tidings  from  our  friends  and  fathers  dead  ? 

Perhaps,  beyond  those  summits,  far  away. 
Thine  eyes  yet  view  the  living  light  of  day ; 
Sad,  in  the  stranger's  land,  thou  mayst  sustain 
A  weary  life  of  servitude  and  pain, 
With  wasted  eye  gaze  on  the  orient  beam, 
And  think  of  these  white  rocks  and  torrent-stream. 
Never  to  hear  the  summer  cocoa  wave, 
Or  weep  upon  thy  father's  distant  grave." 


Ye,  who  have  wak'd,  and  listen'd  with  a  tear, 
When  cries  confus'd,  and  clangours  roll'd  more  neai- ; 
With  murmur'd  prayer,  when  Mercy  stood  aghast, 

93 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  OLD  INDIAN. 

As  War's  black  trump  peal'd  its  terrific  blast, 

And  o'er  the  wither'd  earth  the  armed  giant  pass'd. 

Ye,  who  his  track  with  terror  have  pursued, 

When  some  delightful  laud,  all  blood-imbued. 

He  swept ;    where  silent  is  the  champaign  wide, 

That  echo'd  to  the  pipe  of  yester-tide, 

Save,  when  far  oif,  the  moonlight  hills  prolong 

The  last  deep  echoes  of  his  parting  gong ; 

Nor  aught  is  seen,  in  the  deserted  spot 

Where  trail'd  the  sinoke  of  many  a  peaceful  cot, 

Save  livid  corses  that  unburied  lie, 

And  conflagrations,  reeking  to  the  sky; 

Come  listen,  whilst  the  causes  I  relate 

That  bow'd  the  warrior  to  the  storms  of  fate, 

And  left  these  smiling  scenes  forlorn  and  desolate. 

In  other  days,  when,  in  his  manly  pride, 
Two  children  for  a  father's  fondness  vied, — 
Oft  they  essay'd,  in  mimic  strife,  to  wield 
His  lance,  or  laughing  peep'd  behind  his  shield. 
Oft  in  the  sun,  or  the  magnolia's  shade. 
Lightsome  of  heart,  as  gay  of  look,  they  play'd. 
Brother  and  sister :    She,  along  the  dew, 
Blithe  as  the  squirrel  of  the  forest,  flew ; 
Blue  rushes  Avreath'd  her  head ;    her  dark  brown  hair 
Fell,  gently  lifted,  on  her  bosom  bare ; 
Her  necklace  shone,  of  sparkling  insects  made. 
That  flit,  like  specks  of  fire,  from  sun  to  shade. 
Light  was  her  form ;    a  clasp  of  silver  brac'd 
The  azure-dyed  ichella  round  her  waist ; 
Her  ancles  rung  with  shells,  as,  unconfin'd, 
She  danc'd,  and  sung  wild  carols  to  the  wind. 
With  snow-white  teeth,  and  laughter  in  her  eye, — 
So,  beautiful  in  youth,  she  bounded  by. 

Yet  kindness  sat  upon  her  aspect  bland, — 
The  tame  alpaca  stood  and  lick'd  her  hand ; 
She  brought  him  gather'd  moss,  and  lov'd  to  deck 
With  flow'ry  twine  his  tall  and  stately  neck, 

94 


!^,i  ■*.)-\. 


Wliilst  he  with  silent  gnititude  replies, 
And  bends  to  her  caress  his  large  blue  eyes. 

These  children  danc'd  together  in   the  shade, 
Or  stretch'd  their  hands  to  see  the  rainbow  fade ; 

95 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  OLD  INDIAN. 

Oi'  sat  and  mock'd,  with  imitative  glee, 

The  paroquet,  that  laugh'd  from  tree  to  tree ; 

Or  through  the  forest's  wildest  solitude, 

From  glen  to  glen  the  marmozet  pursued ; 

And  thought  the  light  of  parting  day  too  short, 

That  call'd  them,  ling'ring,  from  their  daily  sport. 

In  that  fair  season  of  awak'ning  life, 
"When  dawning  youth  and  cliildhood  are  at  strife ; 
When  on  the  verge  of  thought  gay  boyhood  stands 
Tip-toe,  with  glist'ning  eye  and  outspread  hands ; 
With  airy  look,  and  form  and  footsteps  light, 
And  glossy  locks,  and  features  berry-bright. 
And  eye  like  the  young  eaglet's  to  the  ray 
Of  noon,  unblenching,  as  he  sails  away  ; 
A  brede  of  sea-shells  on  his  bosom  strung, 
A  small  stone  hatchet  o'er  his  shoulders  slung. 
With  slender  lance,  and  feathers  blue  and  red, 
That  like  the  heron's  crest  wav'd  on  his  head, — 
Buoyant  with  hope,  and  airiness,  and  joy, 
Lautaro  was  the  loveliest  Indian  boy : 
Taught  by  his  sire,  ev'n  now  he  drew  the  bow, 
Or  track'd  the  jaguar  on  the  morning  snow ; 
Startled  the  condor  on  the  craggy  height ; 
Then  silent  sat,  and  mark'd  its  upward  flight, 
Lessening  in  ether  to  a  speck  of  white. 

But  when  th'   impassioned  Chieftain   spoke  of  war, 
Smote  his  broad  breast,  or  pointed  to  a  scar, — 
Spoke  of  the  strangers  of  the  distant  main. 
And  the  proud  banners  of  insulting  Spain, — 
Of  the  barb'd  horse  and  iron  horseman  spoke, 
And  his  red  gods,  that,  wrapp'd  in  rolling  smoke, 
Roar'd  from  the  guns, — the  Boy,  with  still-drawn  breath, 
Hung  on  the  wondrous  tale,  as  mute  as  death  ; 
Then  rais'd  his  animated  eyes,  and  cried, 

"O!     LET   ME    PERISH    BY    MY    FATHER'S    SIDE !" 


96 


LANDING  AT  TYNEMOUTH. 


As  slow  I  climb  the  cliff's  ascending  side, 
IVIucli  musing  on  the   (rack  of  terror  ])ast, 
When  o'er  the  dark  wave  rode   tlic  howling  blast — 
Pleas'd  I  look  back,  and  view   the  traiKiuil   tide 
That  laves  the  pebbled  shore:    and   now  the  beam 
Of  evening  smiles  on  the  grey  battlement 
Of  yon  forsaken  tower  that  TniE  has  rent ; 
The  lifted  oar  far  off  with  transient  gleam 
Is  touch'd,  and  hush'd  is  all  the  billowy  deep, 


THE  BURIAL  PLACE. 

O'er-spent ;    oh !    when  on  wakeful  Memory's  breast 
Shall  stillness  steal  like  this,  and  kindred  rest? 
Then  some  sweet  harmonies  might  soothe  her  sleep, 
Harmonies,  on  the  wandering  minstrel's  lyre, 
Like  airs  of  parting  day,  that,  as  they  breathe,  expire. 


THE  BURIAL  PLACE. 


The  Indian,  sad  and  still, 
Pae'd  on  from  wood  to  vale,  from  vale  to  hill ; 
Her  infant,  tir'd,  and  hush'd  awhile  to  rest, 
Smil'd,  in  a  dream,  upon  its  mother's  breast ; 
The  pensive  mother  grey  Anselmo  led : 
Behind,  Lautaro  bore  his  Father  dead. 

Beneath  the  branching  palms  they  slept  at  night ; 
The  small  birds  wak'd  them  ere  the  morning  light. 
Before  their  path,  in  distant  view,  appear'd 
The  mountain-smoke,  that  its  dark  column  rear'd 
O'er  Andes'  summits,  in  the  pale  blue  sky, 
Lifting  their  icy  pinnacles  so  high. 
Four  days  they  onward  led  their  eastern  way: 
On  the  fifth  rising  morn  before  them  lay 
Chillan's  lone  glen,  amid  whose  windings  green 
The  Warrior's  lov'd  and  last  abode  was  seen. 
No  smoke  went  up, — stillness  was  all  around, 
Save  where  the  waters  fell  with  soothing  sound. 
Save  where  the  Thenca  sung  so  loud  and  clear. 
And  the  bright  humming-bird  was  spinning  near- 

98 


BOWLES. 

Yet  here  all  human  tumults  seem'd  to  cease, 
And  sunshine  rested  on  the  spot  of  peace ; 
The  myrtles  bloom'd  as  fragrant  and  as  green 
As  if  Lautaro  scarce  had  left  the  scene, — 
And  in  his  ear  the  falling  water's  spray 
Seem'd  swelling  with  the  sounds  of  yesterday. — 

"Wliere  yonder  rock  the  aged  cedars  shade, 
There  shall  my  father's  bones  in  peace  be  laid." 

Beneath  the  cedars'  shade  they  dug  the  ground ;        ^ 
The  small  and  sad  communion  gather'd  round. 
Beside  the  grave  stood  aged  Izdabel, 
And  broke  the  spear,  and  cried,  "  Farewell ! — farewell !" 
Lautaro  hid  his  face,  and  sigh'd  "Adieu!" 
As  the  stone  hatchet  in  the  grave  he  threw. 
The  little  child,  that  to  its  mother  clung. 
With  sidelong  looks,  that  on  her  garment  hung, 
Listen'd,  half-shrinking,  as  with  awe  profound. 
And  dropt  its  flowers,  unconscious,  on  the  ground. 
The  Alpaca,  gro-WTi  old,  and  almost  Avild, 
Which  poor  Olola  cherish'd,  when  a  child, 
Came  from  the  mountains,  and,  with  earnest  gaze, 
Seem'd  as  rememb'ring  those  departed  days, 
When  his  tall  neck  he  bent,  with  aspect  bland. 
And  lick'd,  in  silence,  the  caressing  hand! 

And  now  Ansclmo,  his  pale  brow  indin'd. 
The  Wai-rior's  relics,  dust  to  dust,  consign'd 
With  Christian  rites,  and  sung,  on  bending  knee, 
"  Eternam  pacem  dona,  Domine." 
Then,  rising  up,  he  clos'd  the  holy  book. 
And  lifting  in  the  beam  his  lighted  look, 
(The  cross,  with  meekness,  folded  on  his  breast.) — 
"  Here,  too,"  he  cried,  "  my  bones  in  peace  shall  rest ! 
Few  years  remain  to  me,  and  never  more 
Shall   I  behold,  O  Spain,  tliy  distant  shore! 

99 


SUNRISE. 

Here  lay  my  bones,  that  the  same  tree  may  wave 
O'er  the  poor  Christian's  and  the  Indian's  grave. 
Then  may  it — (when  the  sons  of  future  days 
Shall  hear  our  tale,  and  on  the  hillock  gaze) — 
Then  may  it  teach,  that  charity  should  bind. 
Where'er  they  roam,  the  brothers  of  mankind ! 
The  time  shall  come,  when  Avildest  tribes  shall  hear 
Thy  voice,  O  Christ!    and  drop  the  slaught'ring  spear." 


SUNRISE. 


'Tis  dawn: — the  distant  Andes'  rocky  spires, 
One  after  one,  have  caught  the  orient  fires. 
Where  the  dun  condor  shoots  his  upward  flight. 
His  wings  are  touch'd  with  momentary  light. 
Meantime,  beneath  the  mountains'  glittering  heads, 
A  boundless  ocean  of  grey  vapour  spreads. 
That  o'er  the  champaign,  stretching  far  below, 
Moves  on,  in  cluster'd  masses,  rising  slow. 
Till  all  the  living  landscape  is  display'd 
In  various  pomp  of  colour,  light,  and  shade ; 
Hills,  forests,  rivers,  lakes,  and  level  plain, 
Less'ning  in  sunshine  to  the  southern  main. 
The  Llama's  fleece  fumes  with  ascending  dew; 
The  gem-like  humming-birds  their  toils  renew; 

100 


And  see,  where  yonder  stalks,  in  crimson  pride, 

The  tall  flamingo,  by  tlie  river's  side, — 

Stalks,  in  his  richest  plumage  bright  array'd. 

"With  snoA\y  neck  superb,  and  legs  of  lengthening  shade. 


101 


ROGERS. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE. 


Mark  yon  old  Mansion  frowning  thro'  the  trees, 
Whose  hollow  turret  woos  the  whistling  breeze. 
That  casement,  arch'd  with  i\y's  brownest  shade. 
First  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  convey'd. 
The  mould'ring  gateway  shows  the  grass-grown  court, 
Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a  simple  sport ; 
When  nature  pleas'd,  for  life  itself  was  new. 
And  the  heart  promis'd  what  the  fancy  drew. 

See,  through  the  fractur'd  pediment  reveal'd, 
^^Tiere  moss  inlays  the  rudely  sculptur'd  shield, 
The  martin's  old,  hereditary  nest — 
Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallow'd  guest! 

As  jars  the  hinge,  what  sullen  echoes  call ! 
Oh  haste,  unfold  the  hospitable  hall ! 
That  hall,  where  once  in  antiquated  state, 
The  chair  of  justice  held  the  grave  debate. 
Now  stain'd  Avith  dews,  Avith  cobwebs  darkly  hung, 
Oft  has  its  roof  with  peals  of  rapture  rung ; 
When  round  yon  ample  board,  in  due  degree, 
We  sweeten'd  every  meal  with  social  glee. 
The  heart's  light  laugh  pursued  the  circling  jest. 
And  all  was  sunshine  in  each  little  breast. 
'Twas  here  we  chas'd  the  slipper  by  the  sound ; 
And  turn'd  the  blind-fold  hero  round  and  round. 
'Twas  here,  at  eve,  we  form'd  our  faiiy  ring ; 
And  Fancy  fl utter' d  on  her  wildest  wing. 

102 


Ciiants  and  genii  claini'd  each  wondering  ear; 
And  orphan-sorrows  drew  the  ready  tear. 
Oft  with  the  babes  we  wander'd  in  the  wood, 
Or  view'd  the  forest-feats  of  Robin  Hood  ; 

103 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD. 

Oft,  fancy  led,  at  midnight's  fearful  hour 

AVith  startling  step  we  scal'd  the  lonely  tower ; 

O'er  inilmt  innocence  to  hang  and  weep, 

Murder' d  by  ruffian  hands,  when  smiling  in  its  sleep. 

As  o'er  the  dusky  furniture  I  bend. 

Each  chair  awakes  the  feelings  of  a  friend. 

The  storied  arras,  source  of  fond  delight, 

AVith  old  achievements  charms  the  wilder' d  sight ; 

And  still,  with  heraldry's  rich  hues  imprest. 

On  the  dim  window  glows  the  pictur'd  crest. 

The  screen  unfolds  its  many-colour'd  chart. 

The  clock  still  points  its  moral  to  the  heart. 

That  faithful  monitor  'twas  heaven  to  hear, 

When  soft  it  spoke  a  promis'd  pleasure  near; 

And  has  its  sober  hand,  its  simple  chime. 

Forgot  to  trace  the  feather'd  feet  of  Time? 

The  massive  beam,  with  curious  carving  wrought, 

Whence  the  caged  linnet  sooth'd  my  pensive  thought ; 

Those  muskets,  cased  with  venerable  rust ; 

Those  once-lov'd  forms,  still  breathing  thro'  their  dust ; 

Still  from  the  frame,  in  mould  gigantic  cast, 

Starting  to  life — all  whisper  of  the  Past! 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD. 

The  day  arrives,  the  moment  Avish'd  and  fear'd : 
The  child  is  born,  by  many  a  pang  endear'd: 
And  now,  the  Mother's  ear  has  caught  his  cry! 
Oh  !    grant  the  cherub  to  her  asking  eye. 
lie  comes ! — she  clasps  him !     To  her  bosom  prest, 
He  drinks  the  balm  of  life,  and  drops  to  "rest. 

,  Her  by  her  smile  how  soon  the  Stranger  knows  ; 
How  soon  by  his  the  glad  discovery  shows  ! 

104 


•  1 


ROGERS. 

As  to  her  lips  she  lifts  the  lovely  boy, 
"What  answering  looks  of  sympathy  and  joy 
lie  walks,  he  speaks.     In  many  a  broken  word    " 
His  wants,  his  wishes,  and  his  griefs  are  heard  ; 
And  ever,  ever  to  her  lap  he  flies, 
\VTien  rosy  Sleep  comes  on  with  sweet  surprise. 
Lock'd  in  her  arms,  his  arms  across  her  fliuisr, 
(That  name  most  dear  for  ever  on  his  tongue,) 
As  Avith  soft  accents  round  her  neck  he  clingcs. 
And,  cheek  to  cheek,  her  lulling  song  she  smgs, 
How  blest  to  feel  the  beatings  of  his  heart. 
Breathe  his  sweet  breath,  and  kiss  for  kiss  impart ; 
Watch  o'er  his  slumbers  like  the  broodmg  dove, 
And,  if  she  can,  exliaust  a  mother's  love ! 

But  soon  a  nobler  task  demands  her  care. 
Apart  she  joins  his  little  hands  in  prayer. 
Telling  of  Him  avIio  sees  in  secret  there  : 
And  now  the  volume  on  her  knee  has  caught 
His  wandering  eye — now  many  a  written  thought 
Never  to  die,  with  many  a  lisping  sweet, 
His  moving,  murmuring  lips  endeavour  to  repeat. 
Keleased,  he  chases  the  bright  butterfly ; 
Oh,  he  would  follow — follow  through  the  sky  ! 
Climbs  the  gaunt  mastiff  slumbering  in  his  chain, 
And  chides  and  buflets,  clinging  by  the  mane  ; 
Then  runs,  and  kneeling  by  the  fountain-side. 
Sends  his  brave  ship  in  triumph  down  the  tide, 
A  dangerous  voyage  ;    or,  if  now  he  can, 
If  now  he  wears  the  habit  of  a  man, 
Flings  off'  the  coat  so  much  his  pride  and  pleasuic, 
And,  like  a  miser  digging  for  his  treasure. 
His  tiny  spade  in  his  own  garden  plies. 
And  in  green  letters  sees  his  name  arise! 
Where'er  he  goes,  for  ever  in  her  sight. 
She  looks,  and  looks,  and  still  with  new  delight. 


105 


AMELIA  OPIE. 


THE  ORPHAN  BOY'S  TALE. 


Stay,  Lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake, 

And  hear  a  helpless  Orphan's  tale : 
Ah !    sure  my  looks  must  pity  wake ; 

'Tis  want  that  makes  my  cheek  so  pale. 
Yet  I  was  once  a  mother's  pride. 

And  my  brave  father's  hope  and  joy; 
But  in  the  Nile's  proud  fight  he  died — 

And  I  am  now  an  orphan  boy. 

Poor  foolish  child!    how  pleased  was  I, 

AVhen  news  of  Nelson's  victory  came. 
Along  the  crowded  streets  to  fly, 

And  sec  the  lighted  windows  flame ! 
To  force  me  home  my  mother  sought. 

She  could  not  bear  to  see  my  joy; 
For  with  my  father's  life  'twas  bought. 

And  made  me  a  poor  orphan  boy. 

The  people's  shouts  were  long  and  loud, — 

My  mother,  shudd'ring,  closed  her  ears; 
"Rejoice!    rejoice!"    still  cried  the  crowd, — 

My  mother  answer'd  with  her  tears. 
"AVhy  are  you  crying  thus,"  said  I, 

"While  others  laugh  and  shout  with  joyf 
She  kiss'd  me — and,  with  such  a  sigh! 

She  call'd  me  her  poor  orphan  boy. 
106 


"  What  is  an  orphan  boy  ?"   I  cried, 

As  in  hor  face  I  look'cl  and  smiled ; 
My  mother  through  her  tears  replied, 

"You'll  know  too  soon,  ill-fated  child!" 
And  now  they've  toll'd  my  mother's  knell, 

And  I'm  no  more  a  parent's  joy, — 
O  Lady, — I  have  learnt  too  Avell 

What  'tis  to  be  an  orphan  boy. 
107 


THE  ORPHAN  BOY'S  TALE. 

Oh !    were  I  by  your  bounty  fed ! — 

Nay,  gentle  Lady,  do  not  chide, — 
Trust  me,  I  mean  to  earn  my  bread ; 

The  sailor's  orphan  boy  has  pride. 
Lady,  you  weep! — ha! — this  to  me? 

You'll  give  me  clothing,  food,  employ? 
Look  down,,  dear  parents !    look,  and  see 

Your  happy,  happy  orphan  boy. 


WmLIAM  SPENCER 
TO  THE  LADY  ANNE  HAMILTON. 

Too  late  I  stay'd,  forgive  the  crime. 
Unheeded  flew  the  hours ; 

How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time 
That  only  treads  on  flowers! 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 

The  ebbing  of  his  glass. 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks 

That  dazzle  as  they  pass ! 

Ah !    who  to  sober  measurement 
Time's  happy  swiftness  brings. 

When  birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  for  its  wings  ? 


108 


SrEXCER. 


WIFE,  CHILDREN,  AND  FRIENDS. 

When  the  black-lettered  list  to  the  gods  was  presented 
(The  list  of  what  fate  for  each  mortal  intends). 

At  the  long  string  of  ills  a  kind  goddess  relented, 

Ajid  slipped  in  three  blessuigs — wife,  children,  and  friends. 

In  vain  snrly  Pluto  maintained  he  was  cheated, 
For  justice  divine  could  not  compass  its  ends; 

The  scheme  of  man's  penance  he  swore  was  defeated, 

For  earth  becomes  heaven  with — wife,  children,  and  friends. 

If  the  stock  of  our  bliss  is  in  stranger  hands  vested. 
The  fund,  ill-secured,  oft  in  bankruptcy  ends ; 

But  the  heart  issues  bills  which  ai-e  never  protested, 

W^hen  drawn  on  the  firm  of — wife,  children,  and  friends. 

Though  valour  still  glows  in  his  life's  dying  embers, 
The  death-woimded  tar,  Avho  his  colours  defends, 

Drops  a  tear  of  regret  as  he  dying  remembers 

How  bless'd  was  his  home  witli — wife,  children,  and  friends. 

The  soldier,  "whose  deeds  live  innnortal  in  story, 

WHiom  duty  to  far-distant  latitudes   sends, 
Willi  transport  would  barter  old  ages  of  glory 

For  one  happy  day  with — wife,  children,  and  friends. 

Though  spice-breathing  gales  on  his  caravan  hover, 

Though  for  him  Arabia's  fragrance  ascends, 
The  merchant  still  thinks  of  the  woodbines  that  cover 

The  bower  where  he  sat  with — wife,  children,  and  friends. 

lU'J 


WIFE,  CHILDREN,  AND  FRIENDS. 

f 
The  day-spring  of  youth  still  unclouded  by  sorrow, 

Alone  on  itself  for  enjoyment  depends ; 
But  drear  is  the  twilight  of  age,  if  it  borrow 

No  warmth  from  the  smile  of — wife,  children,  and  friends. 

Let  the  breath  of  renown  ever  freshen  and  nourish 
The  laurel  which  o'er  the  dead  favourite  bends ; 

O'er  me  wave  the  willow,  and  long  may  it  flourish. 
Bedewed  with  the  tears  of — wife,  children,  and  friends. 

Let  us  drink,  for  my  song,  growing  graver  and  graver. 

To  subjects  too  solemn  insensibly  tends ; 
Let  us  drink,  pledge  me  high,  love  and  virtue  shall  flavour 

The  glass  which  I  fill  to — wife,  children,  and  friends. 


110 


BYRON. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


Mt  liair  is  grey,  but  not  "udtli  years ; 

Nor  grew  it  wliite 

In  a  single  night, 
As  men's  have  gro^^Ti  from  sudden  fears : 
My  limbs  are  bow'd,  though  not  with  toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose. 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  bann'd,  and  barr'd — forbidden  fare ; 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
I  suffer'd  chains  and  courted  death ; 
That  father  perish'd  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place. 
We  were  seven — who  now  are  one. 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Finish'd  as  they  had  begun. 

Proud  of  Persecution's  rage ; 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field. 
Their  belief  witli  blood  have  seal'd  ; 
Djing  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  detiied: 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 

Ill 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould, 
111  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old ; 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  grey, 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprison'd  ray, — 
A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left, 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp : 
And  in  eiach  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain ; — 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
"Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years — I  cannot  count  them  o'er ; 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  droop'd  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 


They  chain'd  us  each  to  a  column  stone, 
And  we  were  three — yet,  each  alone ; 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace, 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face. 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight; 
And  thus,  together — yet  apart, 
Fetter'd  in  hand,  but  join'd  in  heart, 
'Twas  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth. 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each. 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old, 
Or  song  heroically  bold ; 

112 


But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon   stone, 

A  grating  sound — not  full  and  free, 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

As  they  of  yOre  were  wont  to  be 
It  might  be  fancy — but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 


I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 

And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I  ought  to  do — and  did — my  best; 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him— with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven, — 

For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved : 
And  truly  might  it  be  distrest 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest ; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day — 
(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles,  being  free) — 
A  polar  day,  Avhich  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer's  gone. 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light. 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun : 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright. 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  nought  but  others'  ills. 
And  then  they  flow'd  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Wliich  he  abhorr'd  to  view  below. 


The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind. 
But  form'd  to  combat  with  his  kind ; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perish'd  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy :    but  not  in  chains  to  pine : 
His  spirit  wither'd  with  their  clank ; 

114 


BYRON. 

1  saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so,  perchance,  in  sooth,  did  mine : 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills. 

Had  follow'd  there  the  deer  and  wolf; 

To  him  this  dungeon  Avas  a  gulf, 
And  fetter'd  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 


Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls: 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow ; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
P'rom  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement, 

Which  round  about  the  wave  enthrals : 
A  double  dungeon  Avail  and  Avave 
Have  made — and  like  a  livin";  srave- 
BeloAv  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  Aault  lies  Avherein  Ave  lav, — 
We  heard  it  lipple  night  and  day; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knock'd ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  Avinter's  spray 
Wash  through   the  bars  A\'hcn  Avinds  A\-ere  high 
And  AA^anton  in  the  happy  sky ; 

And  then  the  Aery  rock  hath  rock'd. 

And  I  haAO  felt  it  shake,  unshock'd, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  Avould  haAe  set  me  free. 


I   said   my   nearer  brotlier   jtiird, 
I   said  his   mighty   heart  declin'd  ; 
He  loath'd  and  put  aAvay  his  food  ; 
It  AA'as  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 
For  Ave  Avere  used  to  hunter's  fare, 
And  lor  the  like  had  little  care : 

115 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat, 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captive's  tears 
Have  moisten'd  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow-men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den ; — 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart,  or  limb. 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side. 
But  why  delay  the  truth? — He  died. 
I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead, — 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain. 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died — and  they  unlock'd  his  chain, 
And  scoop'd  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begg'd  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine — it  was  a  foolish  thought. 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer — 
They  coldly  laugh'd — and  laid  him  there: 
The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love. 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant. 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument! 


But  he,  tlic  favourite  and  the  flower, 
Most  cherish'd  since  his  natal  hour, 
His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 

IIG 


BYRON. 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 
His  martyr'd  father's  dearest  thought, 
My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 
To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 
Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free ; 
He  too,  who  yet  had  held,  vmtir'd, 
A  spirit  natural  or  inspir'd, 
He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 
Was  wither'd  on  the  stalk  aAvay. 
Oh,  God !    it  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 
In  any  shape,  in  any  mood  : — 
I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in   blood, 
I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 
Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 
I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 
Of  Sin  delirious  Avith   its  dread : 
But  these  were  horrors — this  was  woe 
Unmix'd  with  such — but  sure  and  slow: 
He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek. 
So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  Aveak, 
So  tearless,  yet  so  tender — kind, 
And  griev'd  for  those  he  left  behind ; 
With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 
Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb. 
Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  aAvay 
As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray — 
An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 
That  almost  made  the  dunceon  brisrlit. 
And  not  a  Avord  of  murmur — not 
A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot, — 
A  little  talk  of  better  days, 
A  little  hope — my  own  to  raise, 
For  I  was  sunk  in   silence — lost 
In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most ; 
And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 
Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness, 

117 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less : 

1  listen'd,  but  I  could  not  hear — 

I  call'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear ; 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished  ; 

I  caird,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

And  rush'd  to  him :    I  found  him  not ; 

/  only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spot, 

/  only  liv'd — /  only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon  dew; 

The  last — the  sole — the  dearest  link 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race. 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath — 

My  brothers — both  had  ceas'd  to  breathe : 

I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 

Alas !    my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive — 

A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 

That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die  ; 
I  had  no  earthly  hope — but  faith. 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 


What  next  befel  me  then  and  there 
I  know  not  well — I  never  knew ; 
First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 

And  then  of  darkness  too : 
I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none — 
Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone. 
And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist; 

118 


BYRON. 

For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  grey : 
It  was  not  night — it  Avas  not  day. 
It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 
So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight. 
But  vacancy  absorbing  space. 
And  fixedness — without  a  place 
There  were  no  stars — no  earth — no  time — 
No  check — no  change — no  good — no  crime- 
But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death ; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness. 
Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless ! 

A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird ; 
It  ceas'd,  and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard ; 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery ; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track : 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done, 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perch'd,  as  fond  and  tame 

And  tamer  than  ujjon  the  tree ; 
A  lovely  bird  ^\\\h  azure  wings. 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seem'd  to  say  them  all  for  me ! 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more : 
It  seem'd,  like  me,  to  want  a  mate, 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate, 

119 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 
And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink, 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free, 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine, 
But  knowing  well  captivity. 

Sweet  bird !    I  could  not  wish  for  thine  ! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise ; 

For — Heaven  forgive  that  thought! — the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile, 
I  sometimes  deem'd  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me ; 
l>ut  then  at  last  away  it  flew. 
And  then  'twas  mortal — well  I  knew, 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown. 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone, — 
Lone — as  the  corse  within  its  shroud ; 
Lone — as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  summer  day. 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

AVhen  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 


A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate. 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate ; 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so. 
They  were  inur'd  to  sights  of  woe, 
But  so  it  was : — my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfasten'd  did  remain. 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side. 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 

120 


BYRON. 

And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
lleturning  where  my  walk  begun, 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod ; 
For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profan'd  their  lowly  bed. 
My  breath  came  gaspingl}^  and  thick. 
And  my  crush'd  heart  iell  blind  and  sick. 


I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall. 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all, 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape  ; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  bo 
A  wider  prison  unto  me  : 
No  child — no  sire — no  kin  had  I. 
No  partner  in  my  misery. 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I   was  glad, 
For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad ; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barr'd  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more,  upon   the  mountains  high. 
The  (jiiiet  of  a  loving  eye. 


I  saw  them — and  they  were  the  same, 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame  ; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high — their  wide  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue   Rhone  in  fullest  flow ; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gu?h 
O'er  channcU'd  rock  and  broken  bush  ; 
I  saw  the  white-wall'd  distant  town. 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down  ; 
And  then   there  was  a  little  isle, 
Wliicii  in  my  very  face  did  smile. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

The  only  one  in  view; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seem'd  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor. 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees. 
And  o'er  It  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  Avere  young  flowers  growing, 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  they  seem'd  joyous  each  and  all; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly; 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye. 
And  I  felt  troubled — and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain  ; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again. 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load ; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save, — ' 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 


It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, — 

I  kept  no  count — I  took  no  note  ; 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote ; — 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free, 

I  ask'd  not  Avhy,  and  reck'd  not  where: 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fetter'd  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learn' d  to  love  despair. 
And  thus,  Avhen-they  appear' d  at  last. 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast. 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 

122 


BYRON. 

A  hermitage — and  all  my  oAvn! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home : 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watch'd  them  in  their  sullen  trade, 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race. 
Had  power  to  kill — yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learn'd  to  dwell — 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are : — even  I 
Regain'd  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 


THE  DREAM. 

Our  life  is  twofold :    Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
^  A  boundary  between  the  things  misnam'd 
Death  and  existence :    Sleep  hath  its  own  world. 
And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality, 
And  dreams  in   their  development  have  breath, 
And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy ; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts, 
They  take  a  weight  from  off  our  waking  toils. 
They  do  divide  our  being ;    they  become 
A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 
And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity ; 
They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past — they  speak 
Like  sibyls  of  the  future ;    they  have  power — 

123 


THE  DKEAM. 

The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain ; 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what  they  will, 
And  shake  us  Avith  the  vision  that's  gone  by, 
The  dread  of  vanish'd  shadows — Are  they  so? 
Is  not  the  past  all  shadow?     What  are  they? 
Creations  of  the  mind? — The  mind  can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and  give 
A  breath  to  forms  that  can  outlive  all  flesh. 
I  would  recall  a  vision  which  I  dream' d 
Perchance  in  sleep— for  in  itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years. 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 


I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill. 
Green  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 
As  'twere  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such. 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base. 
But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 
Scatter'd  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs ; — the  hill 
Was  crown'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fix'd 
Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man  : 
These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 
Gazing — the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath. 
Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gazed  on  her ; 
And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful : 
And  both  Avere  young — yet  not  alike  in  youth. 
As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon's  verge. 
The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood ; 
The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 

124 


And   tliiit  was  shining  on  him  :    ho   had   look'd 
TTpon   it   till   it  conld   not   pass  away  ; 
Tie  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in   hi-rs  : 
She  was  his  voice ;    he  did  not  speak   to  her, 
l>ut   tn'nil)U'd  on  her  words:    she  was  his  sight, 

125 


THE  DREAM. 

For  his  eye  follow'd  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 

Which  coloui''d  all  his  objects : — he  had  ceas'd 

To  live  within  himself;    she  was  his  life, 

The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts. 

Which  terminated  all ;    upon  a  tone, 

A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 

And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously — his  heart 

Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 

But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share : 

Her  sighs  were  not  for  him;    to  her  he  was 

Even  as  a  brother — but  no  more ;    'twas  much, 

For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 

Her  infant  friendship  had  bestow'd  on  him ; 

Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 

Of  a  time-honour'd  race.     It  was  a  name 

Which  pleas'd  him,  and  yet  pleas'd  him  not — and  why? 

Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer — when  she  loved 

Another ;    even  noiv  she  loved  another. 

And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood. 

Looking  afar  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 

Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 
Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparison'd : 
Within  an  antique  Oratoiy  stood 
The  Boy  of  whom  I  spake ;    he  was  alone. 
And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro :    anon 
He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 
Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of;    then  he  lean'd 
His  bow'd  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook  as  'twere 
With  a  convulsion — then  arose  again, 
And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 
What  he  had  written,  but  he  shed  no  tears. 
And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 
Into  a  kind  of  quiet :    as  he  paus'd, 

12C 


BYRON. 

The  Lady  of  his  love  re-enter'd  there ; 

She  was  serene  and  smiHng  then,  and  yet 

She  knew  she  was  by  hiin  belov'd, — she  knew, 

For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  that  his  heart 

Was  darken'd  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 

That  he  was  wi'etched,  but  she  saw  not  all. 

He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 

He  took  her  hand ;    a  moment  o'er  his  face 

A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded,  as  it  came ; 

He  dropp'd  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 

Retir'd,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 

For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles ;    he  passM 

From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall, 

And,  mounting  on  his  steed,  he  went  his  way ; 

And  ne'er  repass'd  that  hoary  threshold  more. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Boy  was  sprung  to  manhood :    in  the  wilds 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home, 
And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams:    he  was  girt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects ;    he  was  not 
Tlimsclf  like  Avhat  he  had  been  ;    on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer ; 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 
A  part  of  all ;    and  in   the  last  he  lay 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couch'd  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  niiu'd  walls  that  had  surviv'd  the  names 
Ol'  those  Avho  rear'd   them;    by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fasten'd  near  a  fountain  ;    and  a  man 
Clad  in   a   flowing  garb  did   watch   the  while. 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumbcr'd  around : 
And  they  were  canojjied  by  the  blue  sky, 

127 


THE  DREAM. 

So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful. 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  heaven. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  sjiirit  of  my  dream. 

The  Lady  of  his  love  was  wed  Avith  one 

Who  did  not  love  her  better  : — in  her  home, 

A  thousand  leagues  from  his, — her  native  home, 

She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  Infancy, 

Daughters  and  sons  of  Beauty, — but  behold ! 

Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief. 

The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 

And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye. 

As  if  its  lid  were  chai-g  d  with  unshed  tears. 

What  could  her  grief  be'? — She  had  all  she  loved, 

And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 

To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish. 

Or  ill-repress'd  affliction,  her  pure  thoughts. 

What  could  her  grief  be?      She  had  loved  him  not. 

Not  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved, 

Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  prey'd 

Upon  her  mind — a  spectre  of  the  past. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  W^and'rer  was  return'd. — I  saw  him  stand 
Before  an  altar — with  a  gentle  bride ; 
Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 
The  starlight  of  his  boyhood  ;  — as  he  stood 
Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 
The  self-same  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock 
That  in  the  antique  Oratory  shook 
His  bosom  in  its  solitude  ;    and  then  — 
As  in  that  hour — a  moment  o'er  his  face 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced— and  then  it  faded  as  it  came. 
And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 

128 


BYRON. 

The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words, 

And  all  things  reel'd  around  him ;    he  could  see 

Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  Avhich  should  have  been 

But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustom'd  hall, 

And  the  remember'd  chambers,  and  the  place. 

The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade,  — 

All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour. 

And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back 

And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light : 

What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time? 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Lady  of  his  love  ; — oh !    she  was  changed, 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ;    her  mind 
Had  wander'd  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes, 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
AV^hich  is  not  of  the  earth ;    she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm ;    her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things ; 
And  forms  impalpable  and  unperceiv'd 
Of  others'  sight  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  phrenzy  ;    but  the  wdse 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift ; 
What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth? 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real! 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Wand'rer  Avas  alone  as  heretofore; 
The  beings  which  surrounded  him  Avere  gone. 
Or  were  at  ^ar  with  him ;    he  was  a  mark 
For  blight  and  desolation,  compass'd  round 
With  Hatred  and  Contention ;    I'ain  was  mix'd 

12!) 


THE  DREAM. 

In  all  which  was  serv'd  up  to  liim,  until, 

Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days, 

He  fed  on  poisons,  and  they  had  no  power, 

But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment ;    he  lived 

Through  that  whicli  had  been  death  to  many  men, 

And  made  him  friends  of  mountains :    with  the  stars 

And  the  quick  Spirit  of  the  Universe 

He  held  his  dialogues  ;    and  they  did  teach 

To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries. 

To  him  the  book  of  Night  was  open'd  wide, 

And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  reveal'd 

A  marvel  and  a  secret.     Be  it  so. 


My  dream  was  past ;    it  had  no  further  change. 

It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 

Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 

Almost  like  a  reality — the  one 

To  end  in  madness — both  in   nusei-y. 


130 


SHELLEY. 


WRITTEN  IN  DEJECTION  NEAR  NAPLES. 


TiiK  sun   is  warm,   the  sky  is  clcai', 

riie  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 


131 


WRITTEN  IN  DEJECTION  NEAR  NAPLES. 

The  purple  noon's  transparent  light. 
The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light 

Around  its  unexpandecl  buds  ; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 

The  Avinds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 
The  city's  voice  itself  is  soft,  like  Solitude's. 

I  see  the  deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strown ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 

Like  light  dissolv'd  in  star-showers,  throAvn. 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone. 

The  lightning  of  the  noon-tide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 

Arises  from  its  measur'd  motion. 
How  sweet!    did  any  heart  noAv  share  in  my  emotion. 

Alas !    I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 

Nor  peace  within,  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  content,  surpassing  wealth, 

The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And  walk'd  with  inward  glory  crown'd — 

Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround — 

Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure ; — 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are  ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child. 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
"WHiich  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death,  like  sleep,  might  steal  on  me. 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  wet,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last"  monotony. 


SHELLEY. 

Some  miglit  lament  that  I  was  cold, 

As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan  : — 
They  might  lament, — for  I  am  one 

AMiom  men  love  not — and  yet  regret ; 
Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 

Sliall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 
Will  linger,  though  enjoy'd,  like  joy  in  memory  yet. 


TO  NIGHT. 


Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
(^ut  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight. 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
AVhich  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight! 

Wraj)  thy  form  in  a  mantle  grey. 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind  witli   thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  Avearied  out, 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  sand, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long-sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  tlie  Dami, 

I  sigh'd  for  tlice  : 
When  light  rode  high,  and   the  dew  was  gone, 

133 


TO  NIGHT. 

And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turn'd  to  his  rest, 
Lingeiing  like  an  unloved  guest, 
I  sigh'd  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

Wouldst  thou  me? 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 

Murmur'd  like  a  noon-tide  bee, 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side? 
Wouldst  thou  me?     And  I  replied, 

No,  not  thee ! 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled: 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon, 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon, — soon ! 


SPRING. 

O  Spring  !    of  hope,  and  love,  and  youth,  and  gladness, 
White-wing'd  emblem!    brightest,  best,  and  fairest! 
Whence  comest  thou,  when  with  dark  AVinter's  sadness 
The  tears  that  fade  in  sunny  smiles  thou  sharest  ? 
Sister  of  joy !    thou  art  the  child  who  wearest 
Thy  mother's  dying  smile,  tender  and  sweet; 
Thy  mother  Autumn,  for  whose  grave  thou  bearest 
Fresh  flowers,  and  beams  like  flowers,  Avith  gentle  feet 
Disturbing  not  the  leaves  which  are  her  Avinding-sbeet. 

134 


/'•      '■'       N ; 


KEATS. 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 


>My   licnrt   ;u'lu-s,  iind   a   drowsy   numbness   j)ains 
My  ..sense,  as   though   of  hemlock   I   had  drunk, 

135 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk  : 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees. 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 


O  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

CooFd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green. 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth ! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim. 
And  purple-stained  mouth  ! 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret. 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan, 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  grey  hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow. 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs; 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes. 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away!    away!    for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards. 

But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Tliough  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards  : 

136 


KEATS. 


Already  with  thee !    tender  is  the  night, 


And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light. 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through   verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  way; 


I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild ; 
^^^lite  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine  ; 
Fast-fading  violets  cover  d  up  in  leaves ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 


Darkling  I  listen  ;    and,  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich   to  die, 
To  cease   upon  the  midnight  with   no  pain, 

While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and    I   have  ears  in  vain 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 


Tliou  wast  not  born  for  deatli,  immortal   IVird  I 
No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 

The  voice   1  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 
111   ancient   days  by  emperor  and   clown  : 

137 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Kuth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  m  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  ofttimes  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 


Forlorn !    the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu  !    the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  Avell 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf 
Adieu !    adieu !    thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream. 
Up  the  hill-side ;    and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music  : — do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


''^  "    -if.0^' 


'^:'i:,  '^^'ir 


138 


COLERIDGE. 


LOVE. 


All  thoughts,  all   passions,  all  delight- 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
139 


LOVE. 

All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour. 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  liope,  my  joy. 
My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

She  lean'd  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  Hsten'd  to  my  lay 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own. 

My  hope  !    my  joy !    my  Genevieve  ! 

She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 

The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoaiy. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 
UO 


COLERIDGE. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined :    and,  ah ! 
The  low,  the  deep,  the  pleading  toiK\ 
AVith  which  I  sang  another's  love. 
Interpreted  my  o^vn. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  do\\aicast  eyes,  and  modest  grace ; 
And  she  forgave  me  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face! 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
Which  crazed  this  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  cross'd  the  mountain-Avoods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 

There  came,  and  look'd  him  in  the  face, 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  Avas  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did. 
Pie  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  Avorse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land ; 

And  how  she  Avept  and  clasp'd  his  knees. 
And  hoAv  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; 

And  that  slie  nursed  him  in  a  caAC ; 
And  hoAV  his  madness  Avent  aAvay 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay ; 
Ul 


LOVE. 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve, 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An   undistinguishable  throng ; 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued. 
Subdued  and  cherish'd  long! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame; 
And,  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stept  aside ; 
As  conscious  of  my  look,  she  stept — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  inclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace ; 
And,  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear. 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see. 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calm'd  her  fears ;    and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 
My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride ! 
14'_' 


WORDSWORTH. 


THE  GLORY  OF  IMAGINATION. 


The  Shepherd-lad.  that  in   the  suni^hme  carvep, 
On  the  green   turf,  a  dial — to  divide 
The  silent  hours ;    and  who  to  that  report 
Can  portion  out  his  pleasures,  and  adapt, 
Tiirougliout  a  long  an<l   linitly  suiiinier's  day, 
His  round  of  pastoral  duties,  is  not  left 
With  less  intelligence  for  imnxd  things 
Of  gravest  import.      Early  he  perceives, 
"Within  himself,  a  measure  and  a  rule, 
AVhich  to  the  sun  of  truth  he  can  apply. 
That  shines  for  him,  and  shines  for  all  mankind. 
Experience  daily  fixing  his  regards 

U3 


A  CLOUD  riCTURE. 

On  Nature's  wants,  he  knows  how  few  they  are, 

And  where  they  lie,  how  answer'd  and  appeas'd : 

This  knowledge  ample  recompense  affords 

For  manifold  privations ;    he  refers 

His  notions  to  this  standard ;    on  this  I'ock 

Kests  his  desires ;    and  hence,  in  after  life, 

Soul-strengthening  patience  and  sublime  content. 

Imagination — not  permitted  here 

To  waste  her  powers,  as  in  the  worldling's  mind, 

On  fickle  pleasures,  and  superfluous  cares. 

And  trivial  ostentation — is  left  free 

And  puissant  to  range  the  solemn  walks 

Of  time  and  nature,  girded  by  a  zone 

That,  while  it  binds,  invigorates  and  supports. 

Acknowledge,  then,  that  whether  by  the  side 

Of  his  poor  hut,  or  on  the  mountain-top, 

Or  in  the  cultur'd  field,  a  Man  so  bred 

(Take  from  him  what  you  will  upon  the  score 

Of  ignorance  or  illusion)  lives  and  breathes 

For  noble  purposes  of  mind :    his  heart 

Beats  to  th'  heroic  song  of  ancient  days ; 

His  eye  distinguishes,  his  soul  creates. 


A  CLOUD  PICTURE. 

So  was  he  lifted  gently  from  the  ground, 
And  with  their  freight  homeward  the  shepherds  mov'd 
Through  the  dull  mist,  I  following — when  a  step, 
A  single  step,  that  freed  me  from  the  skirts 
Of  the  blind  vapour,  open'd  to  my  view 
Gloiy  beyond  all  glory  ever  seen 
By  waking  sense,  or  by  the  dreaming  soul ! 
Th'  appearance,  instantaneously  disclos'd, 

144 


WORDSWORTH. 

Was  of  a  mighty  city — boldly  say 

A  wilderness  of  building,  sinking  far 

And  self-withdrawn  into  a  boundless  depth,  •' 

Far  sinking  into  splendour — without  end! 

Fabric  it  seem'd  of  diamond  and  of  gold, 

With  alabaster  domes  and  sUver  spumes, 

And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace,  high 

Uplifted :    here,  serene  pavilions  bright, 

In  avenues  disposed ;    there,  towers  begirt 

With  battlements  that  on  their  restless  fronts 

Bore  stars — illumination  of  all  gems ! 

By  earthly  nature  had  th'  effect  been  wrought 

Upon  the  dark  materials  of  the  storm 

Now  pacified ;    on  them,  and  on  the  coves 

And  mountain-steeps  and  summits,  whereunto 

The  vapours  had  receded,  taking  there 

Their  station  under  a  cerulean  sky. 

Oh,  .'twas  an  unimaginable  sight ! — 

Clouds,  mists,  streams,  watery  rocks,  and  emerald  turf. 

Clouds  of  all  tincture,  rocks  and  sapphire  sky, 

Confus'd,  commingled,  mutually  inflam'd. 

Molten  together,  and  composing  thus, 

Each  lost  in  each,  that  marvellous  array 

Of  temple,  palace,  citadel,  and  huge 

Fantastic  pomp  of  structui-e  Avithout  name, 

In  fleecy  folds  voluminous  enwrapp'd. 

Right  in  the  midst,  where  interspace  appear'd 

Of  open  court,  an  object  like  a  throne 

Under  a  shining  canopy  of  state 

Stood  fix'd ;    and  fix'd  resemblances  were  seen 

To  implements  of  ordinary  use, 

But  vast  in  size,  in  substance  glorified; 

Such  as  by  Hebrew  Prophets  were  beheld 

In  vision — forms  uncouth  of  mightiest  power 

For  admiration  and  mysterious  awe. 

This  little  Vale,  a  dwelling-place  of  Man, 

La}'  low  beneath  my  feet ;    'twas  visible — 

145  K 


DION. 

1  saw  not,  but  I  felt  that  it  was  there. 

That  which  I  saw  was  the  i-eveard  abode 

Of  Spirits  in  beatitude :    my  heart 

Swell'd  in  my  breast. — "  1  have  been  dead,"  I  cried, 

"  And  now  I  live  !     Oh  !    wherefore  do  I  live  f 

And  with  that  pang  I  pray'd  to  be  no  more! 


DION. 


(SEE  PLUTARCH.) 


Serene,  and  fitted  to  embrace, 
Where'er  he  turn'd,  a  swan-like  grace 
Of  haughtiness  without  pretence. 
And  to  unfold  a  still  magnificence, 
Was  princely  Dion,  in  the  power 
And  beauty  of  his  happier  hour. 
And  what  pure  homage  then  did  wait 
On  Dion's  virtues,  while  the  lunar  beam 
Of  Plato's  genius,  fi'om  its  lofty  sphere. 
Fell  round  him  in  the  grove  of  Academe, 
Softening  their  inbred  dignity  austere — 

That  he,  not  too  elate 

With  self-sufficing  solitude, 
But  with  majestic  lowliness  endued, 
Might  in  the  universal  bosom  reisn. 
And  from  affectionate  observance  gain 
Help,  under  every  change  of  adverse  fate. 

Five  thousand  warriors — O  the  rapturous  day ! 
Each  crown'd  with  flowers,  and  arm'd  with  spear  and  shield. 
Or  ruder  weapon  which  their  course  might  yield. 
To  Syracuse  advance  in  bright  array. 

146 


WORDSWORTH. 

Who  leads  them  on  ?     The  anxious  people  see 

Long-exiled  Dion  marching  at  their  head  ; 

He  also  crown'd  with  flowers  of  Sicily,  •' 

And  in  a  white,  far-beaming  corslet  clad! 

Pure  transport,  undisturb'd  by  doubt  or  fear, 

The  gazers  feel ;    and,  rushing  to  the  plain, 

Salute  those  strangers  as  a  holy  train. 

Or  blest  procession  (to  the  Immortals  dear). 

That  brought  their  precious  liberty  again. 

Lo !    when  the  gates  are  enter'd,  on  each  hand, 

Down  the  long  street,  rich  goblets  filFd  with  wine 

In  seemly  order  stand. 
On  tables   set,  as  if  for  rites  divine; — 

And,  as  the  great  Deliverer  marches  by,  i 

He  looks  on  festal  ground  with  fruits  bestrown ; 
And  flowers  are  on  his  person  thrown 

In  boundless  prodigality ; 
Nor  doth  the  general  voice  abstain  from  prayer. 
Invoking  Dion's  tutelary  care, 
As  if  a  very  Deity  he  were ! 

Mourn,  hills  and  groves  of  Attica! — and  mourn 
Uissus,  bending  o'er  thy  classic  urn ! 
Mourn,  and  lament  for  him  whose  spirit  dreads 
Your  once  sweet  memory,  studious  walks,  and  shades ! 
For  him  who  to  divinity  aspired. 
Not  on  the  breath  of  popular  applause. 
But  through  dependence  on  the  sacred  laws 
Framed  in  the  schools  where  AVisdom  dwelt  retired. 
Intent  to  trace  th'  ideal  path  of  right 

(More  fair  than  heaven's  broad  causeway  paved  with   stars) 
Which  Dion  Icarn'd  to  measure  with  sublime  delight; 
But  he  hath  ovcrleap'd  th'  eternal  bars ; 
And,  following  guides  whose  craft  holds  no  consent 
With  aught  that  breathes  th'  ethereal  element, 
Hath  staiifd  the  robes  of  civil  power  with  blood 
Unjustly  shed,  though  for  the  public  good. 

147 


DION. 

^Vlience  doubts  that  came  too  late,  and  wishes  vain, 

Hollow  excuses,  and  triumphant  pain  ; 

And  oft  his  cogitations  sink  as  low 

As,  through  the  abysses  of  a  joyless  heart, 

The  heaviest  plummet  of  despair  can  go — 

But  whence  that  sudden  check?    that  fearful  start? 

He  hears  an  uncouth  sound — 

Anon  his  lifted  eyes 
Saw,  at  a  long-drawn  gallery's  dusky  bound, 
A  Shape  of  more  than  mortal  size 
And  hideous  aspect,  stalking  round  and  roimd ! 

A  woman's  garb  the  phantom  wore. 

And  swiftly  swept  the  marble  floor — 

Like  Auster  whirling  to  and  fro. 

His  force  on  Caspian  foam  to  try ; 
Or  Boreas  when  he  scours  the  snow 
That  skins  the  plains  of  Thessaly, 
Or  when  aloft  on  Ma^nalus  he  stops 
His  flight,  'mid  eddying  pine-tree  tops ! 

So,  but  from  toil  less  sign  of  profit  reaping, 
The  sullen  Spectre  to  her  purpose  bow'd, 

Sweeping — vehemently  sweeping — 
No  pause  admitted,  no  design  avow'd  ! 
"Avaunt,  inexplicable  guest!    avaunt!" 
Exclaim'd  the  Chieftnin — "let  me  rather  see 
The  coronal  that  coiling  vipers  make ; 
The  torch  that  flames  with  many  a  lurid  flake, 
And  the  long  train  of  doleful  pageantry 
Which  they  behold,  whom  vengeful  Furies  haunt ; 
Who,  while  they  struggle  from  the  scourge  to  flee, 
Move  where  the  blasted  soil  is  not  unworn. 
And,  in  their  anguish,  bear  what  other  minds  have  borne!" 

But  Shapes  that  come  not  at  an  earthly  call, 
AVill  not  depart  ^^hen  mortal  voices  bid ; 
Lords  of  the  visionary  eye,  whose  lid, 

148 


WORDSWORTH. 

Once  raised,  remains  aghast,  and  will  not  fall ! 
Ye  gods,  thought  he,  that  servile  Implement 

Obeys  a  mystical  intent ! 
Your  Minister  would  brush  away 
The  spots  that  to  my  soul  adhere; 
But  should  She  labour  night  and  day. 
They  will  not,  cannot  disappear ; 
Whence  angry  perturbations, — and  that  look 
Which  no  philosophy  caia  brook ! 

Ill-fated  Chief!    there  are  whose  hopes  are  built 

Upon  the  ruins  of  thy  glorious  name ; 

Who,  through  the  portal  of  one  moment's  guilt, 

Pursue  thee  Avith  their  deadly  aim ! 

O  matchless  perfidy !    portentous  lust 

Of  monstrous  crime !    that  horror-striking  blade, 

Drawn  in  defiance  of  the  gods,  hath  laid 

The  noble  Syracusan  low  in  dust ! 

Shudder'd  the  walls — the  marble  city  wept — 

And  sylvan  places  heav'd  a  pensive  sigh ; 

But  in  calm  peace  th'  appointed  Victim  slept, 

As  he  had  fall'n  in  magnanimity ; 

Of  spirit  too  capacious  to  require 

That  Destiny  her  course  shovUd  change ;    too  just 

To  his  o^Ti  native   greatness  to  desire 

That  wretched  boon,  days  Icngthen'd  by  mistrust. 

So  were  the  hopeless  troubles,  that  involved 

The  soul  of  Dion,  instantly  dissolved. 

Releas'd  from  life,  and  cares  of  princely  state. 

He  left  this  moral  grafted  on  his  Fate  : — 

"Him  only  pleasure  leads,  and  peace  attends. 

Him,  only  him,  the  shield  of  Jove  defends, 

Wliose  means  are  fair  and  spotless  as  his  ends." 


140 


INCIDENT  AT  BEUGES. 


INCIDENT  AT  BRUGES. 


In  Bruges  town  is  many  a  street 

Whence  busy  life  hath  fled; 
Where,  without  hurry,  noiseless  feet 

The  grass-grown  pavement  tread. 
There  heard  we,  halting  in  the  shade 

Flung  from  a  convent-tower, 
A  harp  that  tuneful  prelude  made 

To  a  voice  of  thrilling  power. 

The  measure,  simple  truth  to  tell, 

Was  fit  for  some  gay  throng; 
Though  from  the  same  grim  turret  fell 

The  shadow  and  the  song. 
When  silent  were  both  voice  and  chords, 

The  strain  seem'd  doubly  dear, 
Yet  sad  as  sweet, — for  English  words 

Had  fall'n  upon  the  ear. 

It  was  a  breezy  hour  of  eve ; 

And  pinnacle  and  spire 
Quiver'd  and  seem'd  almost  to  heave 

Cloth'd  with  innocuous  fire ; 
But,  where  we  stood,  the  setting  sun 

Show'd  little  of  his  state ; 
And,  if  the  glory  reach'd  the  Nun, 

'Twas  through  an  iron  grate. 

Not  always  is  the  heart  unwise, 

Nor  pity  idly  borne, 
If  even  a  passing  Stranger  sighs 

For  them  who  do  not  mourn. 
150 


Sad  is  thy  doom,  self-solaced  dove, 
Captive,  wlioe'ci-  thou  be ! 

Oh!  what  is  beauty,  what  is  love, 
And  opening  life  to  thefi|| 


Such  feeling  press'd  upon  the  soul, 

A  feeling  sanctified 
By  one  soft  trickling  tear  that  stole 

From  the  Maiden  at  my  side : 
Less  tribute  could  she  pay  than  this, 

Borne  gaily  o'er  the  sea, 
Fresh  from  the  beauty  and  the  bliss 

Of  English  liberty? 
151 


A  JEWISH  FAMILY. 


A  JEWISH  FAMILY. 


IN  A  SMALL  VALLEY  OPPOSITE  ST.  GOAR,  UPON  THE  PvHINE. 


Genius  of  Raphael !    if  thy  wings 

Might  bear  thee  to  this  glen, 
With  faithful  memory  left  of  things 

To  pencil  dear  and  pen, 
Thou  Avouldst  forego  the  neighbouring  Rhine, 

And  all  his  majesty — 
A  studious  forehead  to  incline 

O'er  this  poor  family. 

The  Mother — her  thou  must  have  seen. 

In  spirit,  ere  she  came 
To  dwell  these  rifted  rocks  between, 

Or  found  on  earth  a  name ; 
An  image,  too,  of  that  sweet  Boy 

Thy  inspirations  give — 
Of  playfulness,  and  love,  and  joy, 

Predestin^  here  to  live. 

Downcast,  or  shooting  glances  far. 

How  beautiful  his  eyes, 
That  blend  the  nature  of  the  star 

With  that  of  summer  skies! 
I  speak  as  if  of  sense  beguil'd ; 

Uncounted  months  are  gone. 
Yet  am  I  with  the  Jewish  Child, 

That  exquisite  Saint  John. 
152 


WORDSWORTH. 

I  see  the  dark-brown  curls,  the  brow, 

The  smooth  transparent  skin, 
Refin'd,  as  with  intent  to  show 

The  holmess  within ; 
Tlie  grace  of  parting  Infancy 

By  blushes  yet  untam'd ; 
Age  faithful  to  the  mother's  knee, 

Nor  of  her  arms  asham'd. 

Two  lovely  Sisters,  still  and  sweet 

As  flowers,  stand  side  by  side ; 
Their  soul-subduing  looks  might  cheat 

The  Christian  of  his  pride ; 
Such  beauty  hath  tli'   Eternal  pour'd 

Upon  them  not  forlorn, 
Though  of  a  lineage  once  abhorr'd, 

Nor  yet  redeem'd  from  scorn. 

Mysterious  safeguard,  that,  in  spite 

Of  poverty  and  ■v\Tong, 
Doth  here  preserve  a  living  light. 

From  Hebrew  fountains  sprung ; 
That  gives  this  ragged  group  to  cast 

Around  the  dell  a  gleam 
Of  Palestine,  of  glory  past, 

And  proud  Jerusalem ! 


153 


A  PORTRAIT. 


A  PORTRAr 


She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 

A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  Twilight  fair; 

Like  Twilight  too  her  dusky  hair ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn ; 

A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  Creature,  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 
A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  Traveller  between  life  and  death ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 


154 


"WORDSWOKTII. 


LUCY. 


Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
Then  Nature  said,  "A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown  ; 
This  Cliild  I  to  myseli"  will  take  ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  Lady  of  my  own. 

Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse :    and  with   me 

The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
Li  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  Fawn 
That  wiltl  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 

The  Floating  Clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her  ;    for  her  the  ■\\ill()W  bend : 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  Storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  Maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

The  Stars  of  IMidnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her;    and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

Li  many  a  secret  place 
Where  Rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 
155 


SONNET. 

And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  Dell." 

Thus  Nature  spoke. — The  work  was  done- 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene ; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 


SONNET 


COMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE,  SEPT.  3,  1803. 

Earth  has  not  any  thing  to  show  more  fair : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 
This  City  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning;    silent,  bare. 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky ; 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  aii". 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendour  valley,  rock  or  hill ; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep. 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 
Dear  God !    the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 


15G 


LAMB. 


HESTER.— A  REMEMBRANCE. 


When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try, 
With  vain  endeavour. 

A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead. 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 
And  her  together. 


o 


A  sprmgy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 
That  flush'd  her  spirit — 

I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call : — if  'twas  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  jdlied 
She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
^Miich  (loth   the  liuman  feeling  cool; 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school, 
Nature  had  blest  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  piling  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind, 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 

l.-)7 


VERSES  FOR  AN  ALBUM. 

My  spriglitly  neighbour,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 
Some  summer  morning, 

Wlien  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 
A  sweet  forewarning? 


VERSES  FOR  AN  ALBUM. 

Fresh  clad  from  heaven  in  robes  of  white, 

A  young  probationer  of  light, 

Thou  wert,  my  soul,  an  Album  bright, 

A  spotless  leaf;    but  thought,  and  care, 
And  Iriends,  and  foes,  in  foul  or  fair. 
Have  written  "  strange  defeature"  there. 

And  Time,  with  heaviest  hand  of  all, 
Like  that  fierce  Avriting  on  the  wall. 
Hath  stamp' d  sad  dates  he  can't  recall. 

And  Error,  gilding  worse  designs, 
Like  speckled  snake  that  strays  and  shines- 
Betrays  his  path  by  crooked  lines. 

My  scalded  eyes  no  longer  brook 
Upon  this  ink-blurr'd  thing  to  look. 
Go — shut  the  leaves — and  clasp  the  book  ! 
158 


KIRKE  WHITE. 


THE  HERB  ROSEMARY. 


Sweet  scented  flower !    who  art  wont  to  bloom 

On  January's  front  severe, 

And  o'er  the  wintry  desert  drear 
To  waft  thy  waste  perfume ! 
Come,  thou  shalt  form  my  nosegay  now, 
And  I  will  bind  thee  round  my  brow ; 

And  as  I  twine  the  mournful  wreath, 
I'll  weave  a  melancholy  song, 
And  sweet  the  strain  shall  be,  and  long. 

The  melody  of  death. 

Come,  funeral  flower!    who  lov'st  to  dwell 
With  the  pale  corse  in  lonely  tomb. 
And  throw  across  the  desert  gloom 
A  sweet  decaying  smell. 

Come,  press  my  lips,  and  lie  with  me 

Beneath  the  lowly  alder-tree ; 

And  we  will  sleep  a  pleasant  sleep, 

And  not  a  care  shall  dare  intrude, 

To  break  the  marble  solitude, 
So  peaceful,  and  so  deep. 

And  hark !    the  wind-god,  as  he  flies. 
Moans  hollow  in  the  forest-trees. 
And  sailing  on  the  gusty  breeze. 
Mysterious  music  dies. 
Sweet  flower !    that  requiem  wild  is  mine, 
It  warns  me  to  the  loricly  shrine, 

l.VJ 


ODE  TO  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

The  cold  turf  altar  of  the  dead ; 
My  grave  shall  be  in  yon  lone  spot, 
Wliere  as  I  lie,  by  all  forgot, 
A  dying  fragrance  thou  wilt  o'er  my  ashes  shed. 


ODE  TO  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come! 

Not  in  thy  terrors  clad ; 
Come  in  thy  meekest,  saddest  guise ; 
Thy  chastening  rod  but  terrifies 
The  restless  and  the  bad. 
But  I  recline 
Beneath  thy  shrine, 
And  round  my  brow  resign'd  thy  peaceful  cypress  twine. 

Though  Fancy  flies  away 

Before  thy  hollow  tread, 
Yet  Meditation,  in  her  cell. 
Hears  with  faint  eye  the  ling'ring  knell. 
That  tells  her  hopes  are  dead ; 
And  though  the  tear 
By  chance  appear, 
Yet  she  can  smile,  and  say.  My  all  was  not  laid  here ! 

What  is  this  passing  scene  ? 

A  peevish  April  day! 
A  little  sun,  a  little  rain, 
And  then  night  sweeps  along  the  plain, 
And  all  things  fade  away. 
Man  (soon  discuss'd) 
Yields  up  his  trust, 
And  all  his  hopes  and  fears  lie  with  him  in  the  dust. 

ICO 


KIRKE  WHITE. 

Oh,  what  is  Beauty's  power? 

It  flourishes  and  dies ; 
Will  the  cold  earth  its  silence  break,  ' 

To  tell  how  soft,  how  smooth  a  cheek 
Beneath  its  surface  lies'? 
Mute,  mute  is  all 
O'er  Beauty's  fall ; 
Her  praise  resounds  no  more  when  mantled  in  her  pall. 

The  most  belov'd  on  earth 

Not  long  survives  to-day; 
So  music  past  is  obsolete. 
And  yet  'twas  sweet,  'twas  passing  sweet, 
But  now  'tis  gone  away. 
Thus  does  the  shade 
In  memory  fade, 
AVhen  in  forsaken  tomb  the  form  belov'd  is  laid. 

Then,,  since  this  Avorld  is  vain. 

And  volatile,  and  fleet. 
Why  should  I  lay  up  earthly  joys 
Where  rust  corrupts,  and  moth  destroys, 
And  cares  and  sorrows  eat? 
Why  fly  from  ill 
With  cautious  skill, 
When  soon  this  hand  will  freeze,  this  throbbing  heart  be  still? 

Come,  Disappointment,  come  I 
Thou  art  not  stern  to  me ; 
Sad  monitrcss !    I  own  thy  sway, 
A  votary  sad  in  early  day, 
I  bend  my  knee  to  thee. 
From  sun  to  sun 
My  race  will  run  ; 
I  only  bow,  and  say.  My  God,  Thy  will  be  done ! 


161 


ALLSTON. 


AMERICA  TO  GREAT  BRITAIN. 


All  hail !    thou  noble  land, 
Our  Fathers'  native  soil ! 
O,  stretch  thy  mighty  hand, 
Gigantic  grown  by  toil, 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shore! 
For  thou  with  magic  might 
Canst  reach  to  where  the  light 
Of  Phoebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er ! 

The  Genius  of  our  clime. 

From  his  pine-embattled  steep, 
Shall  hail  the  guest  sublime ; 
While  the  Tritons  of  the  deep 
With  their  conchs  the  kindred  league  shall  proclaim. 
Then  let  the  world  combine, — 
O'er  the  main  our  naval  line 
Like  the  milky-way  shall  shine 
Bright  in  fame! 

Though  ages  long  have  past 

Since  our  Fathers  left  their  home, 
Their  pilot  in  the  blast, 

O'er  untravcUed  seas  to  roam. 
Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins! 
And  shall  we  not  proclaim 
That  blood  of  honest  fame 
Which  no  tyranny  can  tame 
By  its  chains? 

162 


ALLSTON. 


AVhile  the  language  free  and  bold 
Which  the  Bard  of  Avon  sung, 
In   which  our  Milton  told 

How  the  vault  of  heaven  rung 
When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host ; — 
While  this,  with  reverence  meet. 
Ten  thousand  echoes  greet. 
From  rock  to  rock  repeat 
Round  our  coast ; — 

While  the  manners,  while  the  arts, 

That  mould  a  nation's  soul, 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts, — 
Between  let  Ocean  roll, 
Our  joint  communion  breaking  with  the  Sun 
Yet  still  from  either  beach 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach, 
More  audible  than  speech, 
"We  are  One." 


ROSALIE. 


'•  O  POUR  upon  my  soul  again 
That  sad,  unearthly  strain, 
That  seems  from  other  worlds  to  plain ; 
Thus  falling,  falling  from  afar. 
As  if  some  melancholy  star 
Had  mingled  with  her  lisrht  her  sif^hs. 
And  dropped  them  from  the  skies ! 

"  No, — never  came  from  aught  below 
This  melody  of  woe. 
That  makes  my  heart  to  overflow. 
HJ3 


A  FRAGMENT. 

As  from  a  thousand  gushing  springs, 
Unknown  before ;    that  with  it  brings 
This  nameless  light, — if  light  it  be, — 
That  veils  the  Avorld  I  see. 

"  For  all  I  see  around  me  wears 
The  hue  of  other  spheres ; 
And  something  blent  of  smiles  and  tears 
Comes  from  the  very  air  I  breathe. 
O,  nothing,  sure,  the  stars  beneath 
Can  mould  a  sadness  like  to  this, — 
So  like  angelic  bliss." 

So,  at  that  dreamy  hour  of  day 
When  the  last  lingering  ray 

Stops  on  the  highest  cloud  to  play, — 

So  thought  the  gentle  llosalie, 

As  orf  her  maiden  reverie 

First  fell  the  strain  of  him  who  stole 
In  music  to  her  soul. 


A  FRAGMENT. 


Wise  is  the  face  of  Nature  unto  him 
Whose  heart,  amid  the  business  and  the  cares. 
The  cunning  and  bad  passions,  of  the  world, 
Still  keeps  its  freshness,  and  can  look  upon  her 
As  when  she  breathed  upon  his  schoolboy  face 
Her  morning  breath,  from  o'er  the  dewy  beds 
Of  infant  violets  waking  to  the  sun ; — 
When  the  young  spirit,  only  recipient. 
So  drank  in  her  beauties,  that  his  heart 
Would  reel  within  him,  joining  jubilant 
The  dance  of  brooks  and  waving  woods  and  flowers. 

164 


DANA. 


THE  HUSBAND'S  AND  WIFE'S  GRAVE. 


IIt'SHand  and  wife !     No  converse  now  ye  hold. 
As  once  ye  did  in  your  young  days  of  love, 

165 


THE  HUSBAND'S  AND  WIFE'S  GRAVE. 

On  its  alarms,  its  anxious  hours,  delays, 

Its  silent  meditations,  its  glad  hopes, 

Its  fears,  impatience,  quiet  sympathies  ; 

Nor  do  ye  speak  of  joy  assured,  and  bliss 

Full,  certain,  and  possess'd.     Domestic  cares 

Call  you  not  now  together.     Earnest  talk 

On  what  your  children  may  be,  moves  you  not. 

Ye  lie  in  silence,  and  an  awful  silence ; 

'Tis  not  like  that  in  which  ye  rested  once 

Most  happy — silence  eloquent,  when  heart 

With  heart  held  speech,  and  your  mysterious  fi-ames, 

Harmonious,  sensitive,  at  every  beat 

Touch'd  the  soft  notes  of  love. 

Stillness  profound. 
Insensible,  unheeding,  folds  you  round  ; 
And  darkness,  as  a  stone,  has  seal'd  you  in. 
Away  from  all  the  living,  here  ye  rest : 
In  all  the  nearness  of  the  narrow  tomb, 
Yet  feel  ye  not  each  other's  presence  now. 
Dread  fellowship !    together,  yet  alone. 

Is  this  thy  prison-house,  thy  grave,  then,  Love? 
And  doth  death  cancel  the  great  bond  that  holds 
Commingling  spirits'?     Are  thoughts  that  know  no  bounds, 
But,  self-inspired,  rise  upward,  searching  out 
The  eternal  Mind — the  Father  of  all  thought — 
Are  they  become  mere  tenants  of  a  tomb? 
Dwellers  in  darkness,  who  th'   illuminate  realms 
Of  uncreated  light  have  visited  and  lived  ? 
Lived  in  the  dreadful  splendour  of  that  throne. 
Which  One,  with  gentle  hand  the  veil  of  flesh 
Lifting,  that  hung  'twixt  man  and  it,  reveal'd 
In  glory?    throne,  before  which  even  now 
Our  souls,  moved  by  prophetic  power,  bow  down 
Rejoicing,  yet  at  their  own  natures  awed? 
Souls  that  Thee  know  by  a  mysterious  sense, 

IGG 


DANA. 

Thou  aw-ful,  unseen  presence — ai-e  they  quenched, 
Or  burn  they  on,  liid  from  our  mortal  eyes 
By  that  bright  day  which  ends  not,  as  the  sun  i 

His  robe  of  light  flings  round  the  glittering  stars? 

And  with  our  frames  do  perish  all  our  loves? 
Do  those  that  took  their  root  and  put  forth  buds. 
And  their  soft  leaves  unfolded  in  the  warmth 
Of  mutual  hearts,  grow  up  and  live  in  beauty, 
Tlien  fade  and  fall,  like  fair  unconscious  flowers? 
Are  thoughts  and  passions  that  to  the  tongue  give  speecli. 
And  make  it  send  forth  winning  harmonies, 
That  to  the  cheek  do  give  its  living  glow, 
And  vision  in  the  eye  the  soul  intense 
AVith  that  for  which  there  is  no  utterance — 
Are  these  the  body's  accidents?    no  more? 
To  live  in  it,  and  when  that  dies,  go  out 
Like  the  burnt  taper's  flame? 

Oh,  listen,  man ! 
A  voice  within  us  speaks  that  startling  word, 
"Man,  thou  shalt  never  die!"     Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  unto  our  souls:    according  harps. 
By  angel  fingers  touch'd  Avhen  the  mild  stars 
Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  iunuortality : 
Tliick  clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  lair  domain, 
'I'he   tall,  dark  moiuitains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas 
Join   in   this  solemn,  universal  song. 
Oh,  listen,  ye,  our  spirits;    drink   i)    in 
From   ail    the  air!      'Tis   in   the  gentle  moonlight; 
'Tis  floating  midst  day's  setting  glories;    Night, 
Wrapped   in   licr  <al)le  robe,  with   silent  step 
(Joines  to  our  bed  and  breathes  it  in   our  cars: 
Night,  and  the  dawn,  bright  day,  and  thoughtful  eve 
All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse. 
As  one  vast  mystic  instrument,  are  touch'd 

167 


THE  HUSBAND'S  AND  WIFE'S  GRAVE. 

By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee. 
The  dying  hear  it ;    and  as  sounds  of  earth 
Grovv^  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 
To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 

Why  is  it  that  I  linger  round  this  tomb? 
What  holds  it?     Dust  that  cumber'd  those  I  mourn. 
They  shook  it  off,  and  laid  aside  earth's  robes. 
And  put  on  those  of  light.     They're  gone  to  dwell 
In  love — their  God's  and  angels'.     Mutual  love, 
That  bound  them  here,  no  longer  needs  a  speech 
For  full  communion ;    nor  sensations  strong. 
Within  the  breast,  their  prison,  strive  in  vain 
To  be  set  free,  and  meet  their  kind  in  joy. 
Changed  to  celestials,  thoughts  that  rise  in  each, 
By  natures  new,  impart  themselves,  though  silent. 
Each  quick'ning  sense,  each  throb  of  holy  love. 
Affections  sanctified,  and  the  full  glow 
Of  being,  which  expand  and  gladden  one. 
By  union  all  mysterious,  thrill  and  live 
In  both  immortal  frames :    Sensation  all. 
And  thought,  pervading,  mingling  sense  and  thought  I 
Ye  pair'd,  yet  one !    wi'apped  in  a  consciousness 
Twofold,  yet  single — this  is  love,  this  life ! 

Why  call  we,  then,  the  square-built  monument. 
The  upright  column,  and  the  low-laid  slab, 
Tokens  of  death,  memorials  of  decay? 
Stand  in  this  solemn,  still  assembly,  man. 
And  learn  thy  proper  nature ;    for  thou  see'st, 
In  these  shaped  stones  and  letter'd  tables,  figures 
Of  life :    More  are  they  to  thy  soul  than  those 
Which  he  who  talk'd  on  Sinai's  mount  with  God 
Brought  to  the  old  Judeans — types  are  these, 
Of  thine  eternity. 


168 


DANA. 

I  thank  thee,  Father, 
That  at  this  simple  grave,  on  which  the  da\vn 
Is  breaking,  emblem  of  that  day  which  hath 
No  close,  Thou  kindly  unto  my  dark  mind 
Hast  sent  a  sacred  light,  and  that  away 
From  this  green  hillock,  whither  I  had  come 
In  sorrow.  Thou  art  leading  me  in  joy. 


A  CLUMP  OF  DAISIES. 


Ye  daisies  gay, 

This  fresh  spring  day 
Close  gathered  here  together. 

To  play  in  the  light, 

To  sleep  all  the  night. 
To  abide  through  the  sullen  weather; 

Ye  creatures  bland, 

A  simple  band, 
Ye  free  ones,  linked  in  pleasure. 

And  linked  when  your  forms 

Stoop  low  in  the  storms, 
And  the  rain  comes  down  without  mcasuiT  ; 

AVhen  wild  clouds  fly 

Athwart  the  sky, 
And  ghostly  shadows,  glancing. 

Are  darkening  the  <ileam 

Of  the  hurrying  stream. 
And  your  close,  bright  heads  gayly  dancing ; 

IG9 


A  CLUMP  OF  DAISIES. 

Though  dull  awhile, 

Again  ye  smile ; 
For,  see,  the  warm  sun  breaking ; 

The  stream's  going  glad, 

There's  nothing  now  sad, 
And  the  small  bird  his  song  is  waking. 

The  dew-drop  sip 

With  dainty  lip ! 
The  sun  is  low  descended. 

And,  Moon!    softly  fall 

On  troop  true  and  small ! 
Sky  and  earth  in  one  kindly  blended. 

And,  Morning !    spread 

Their  jewelled  bed 
With  lights  in  the  east  sky  springing! 

And,  Brook !    breathe  around 

Thy  low  murmured  sound ! 
May  they  move,  ye  Birds,  to  your  singing 

For  in  their  play 

I  hear  them  say. 
Here,  man,  thy  wisdom  borrow; 

In  heart  be  a  child. 

In  word,  true  and  mild : 
Hold  thy  faith,  come  joy,  or  come  sorrow. 


170 


WOODWORTH. 

THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood. 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view ; 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep  tangled  wild  wood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew^: 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  which  stood  by  it, 

The  bridge  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it. 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hail  as  a  treasure ; 

For  often,  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it  with  hands  that  were  glowing, 

And  quick  to  the  white  pebbled  bottom  it  fell ; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing. 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket. 
The  moss-covered  bucket  arose  from  the  Avell. 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it. 

As,  pois'd  on   the  curb,  it   inclined  to  my  lips! 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me   to  leave  it. 

Though  fiU'd  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 
And  now  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation. 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in   the  well  ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hangs  in  his  well. 

171 


SCOTT. 


THE  SUN  UPON  THE  WEIRDLAW  HILL. 


The  sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill, 
In  Etti'ick's  vale,  is  sinking  sweet ; 
172 


SCOTT. 

The  westland  Avind  is  husht  and  still, 

The  lake  lies  sleeping  at  my  feet. 
Yet  not  the  landscape  to  mine  eye  ' 

Bears  those  sweet  hues  that  once  it  bore ; 

Though  Evening,  with  her  richest  dye, 
Flames  o'er  the  hills  of"  Ettrick  shore. 

With  listless  look  along  the  plain, 

I  see  Tweed's  silver  current  glide, 
And  coldly  mark  the  holy  fane 

Of  Melrose  rise  in  ruin'd  pride. 
The  quiet  lake,  the  balmy  air. 

The  hill,  the  stream,  the  tower,  the  tree — 
Are  they  still  sweet  as  once  they  were. 

Or  is  the  dreary  change  in  me  1 

Alas !    the  warp'd  and  broken  board. 

How  can  it  bear  the  painter's  dye? 
The  harp  of  strain'd  and  tuneless  chord. 

How  to  the  minstrel's  skill  reply? 
To  aching  eyes  each  landscape  lours, 

To  feverish  pulse  each  gale  blows  chill ; 
And  Araby,  or  Eden's  bowers. 

Were  barren  as  this  moorland  hill. 


i:."} 


MARMION— DYING. 


They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay ; 

Clare  drew  her  from  the  Fight  away, 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan, 
And  half  he  murmur'd, — "  Is  there  none, 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst. 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring. 

To  slake  my  dying  thirst?" 
174 


SCOTT. 

0  Woman  !    in  our  hours  of  ease, 

Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 

And  variable  as  the   shade  *' 

By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made  ; 

When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow. 

A  ministering  angel  thou ! — 

Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said. 

When,  Avith  the  Baron's  casque,  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran : 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears — 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears. 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stoop'd  her  by  the  runnel's  side. 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew ; 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountains  wide. 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark-red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where  shall  she  turn  ?    behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain  cell, 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond-spark, 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half-worn  letters  say, 

lOrink .  ttirnrij .  jiilgriiii .  hink .  nnh  .  prnij 

/or .  \\)i .  kiiill .  sniii .  uf .  f  ijliil .  dprrtj . 

!l)j]n .  liuilt .  tiii3 .  rrnss .  nnli .  lurll . 

She  fill'd  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied. 
And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A  Monk  supporting  Marmion's  head — 
A  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought. 

To  shrive  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 


175 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROKEBY. 


Soon  murkier  clouds  the  Plall  enfold, 
Than  e'er  from  battle-thunders  roll'd — 
So  dense,  the  combatants  scarce  know 
To  aim  or  to  avoid  the  blow. 
Smoth'ring  and  blindfold  grows  Iho  tight 
But  soon  shall  da-wm  a  dismal  light ! 

170 


SCOTT. 

'Mid  cries,  and  clashing  arms,  there  came 
The  hollow  sound  of  rushing  flame ; 
New  horrors  on  the  tumult  dire  '' 

Arise — the  Castle  is  on  tire  ! 
Doubtful,  if  chance  had  cast  the  brand. 
Or  frantic  Bertram's  desperate  hand. 
Matilda  saw — for  frequent  broke 
From  the  dim  casements  gusts  of  smoke. 
Yon  tOAver,  which  late  so  clear  defin'd 
On  the  fair  hemisphere  reclin'd, 
That,  pencill'd  on  its  azure  pure. 
The  eye  could  count  each  embrasure, 
Now,  swath'd  within  the  sweeping  cloud. 
Seems  giant  spectre  in  his  shroud ; 
Till,  from  each  loophole  flashing  light, 
A  spout  of  Are  shines  ruddy  bright, 
And,  gathering  to  united  glare, 
Streams  high  into  the  midnight  air  ; 
A  dismal  beacon,  far  and  wide 
That  waken'd  Greta's  slumbering  side. 
Soon  all  beneath,  through  gallery  long 
And  pendant  arch,  the  Are  flash'd  strong, 
Snatching  Avhatever  could  maintain, 
Raise,  or  extend,  its  furious  reign  ; 
Startling,  with  closer  cause  of  dread. 
The  females  who  the  conflict  fled. 
And  now  rush'd  forth  upon  the  plain, 
Filling  the  air  with  clamours  vain. 

]^ut  ceas'd  not  yet,  the  Hall  within, 

The  shriek,  the  shout,  the  carnage-din, 

Till  bursting  lattices  give  proof 

The  flames  iiave  caught  the  rafter'd  roof. 

What!    wait  they  till  its  beams  amain 

Crash  on  the  slayers  and  the  slain  ? 

Th'  alarm  is  caught — the  drawbridge  falls — 

The  warriors  huriy  from  the  walls ; 


M 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROKEBY. 

But,  by  the  conflagration's  light, 
Upon  the  lawn  renew  the  fight. 
Each  straggling  felon  down  was  hew'd, 
Not  one  could  gain  the  shelt'ring  wood  ; 
But  forth  th'  affrighted  harper  sprung. 
And  to  Matilda's  robe  he  clung. 
Her  shriek,  entreaty,  and  command, 
Stopp'd  the  pursuer's  lifted  hand. 
Denzil  and  he  alive  were  ta'en ; 
The  rest,  save  Bertram,  all  are  slain. 

And  where  is  Bertram? — Soaring  high. 
The  general  flame  ascends  the  sky ; 
In  gather'd  group  the  soldiers  gaze 
Upon  the  broad  and  roaring  blaze, 
When,  like  infernal  demon,  sent 
Red  from  his  penal  element, 
To  plague  and  to  pollute  the  air — 
His  face  all  gore,  on  fire  his  hair — 
Forth  from  the  central  mass  of  smoke 
The  giant  form  of  Bertram  broke ! 
His  brandish'd  sword  on  high  he  rears, 
Then  plung'd  among  opposing  spears ; 
Round  his  left  .arm  his  mantle  truss'd, 
Receiv'd  and  foil'd  three  lances'  thrust; 
Nor  these  his  headlong  course  withstood. 
Like  reeds  he  snapp'd  the  tough  ash-wood. 
In  vain  his  foes  around  him  clung; 
With  matchless  force  aside  he  flung 
Their  boldest, — as  the  bull  at  bay 
Tosses  the  ban-dogs  from  his  way, 
Through  forty  foes  his  path  he  made, 
And  safely  gain'd  the  forest  glade. 

Scarce  was  this  final  conflict  o'er, 
When  from  the  postern  Redmond  bore 
Wilfrid,  who,  as  of  life  bereft, 

178 


SCOTT. 

Had  in  the  fatal  Hall  been  left, 
Deserted  there  by  all  his  train  ; — 
But  Kedraond  saw,  and  turn'd  again. 
Beneath  an  oak  he  laid  him  down. 
That  in  the  blaze  gleam'd  rnddy  brown. 
And  then  his  mantle's  clasp  undid ; 
jMatilda  held  his  drooping  head, 
Till,  given  to  breathe  the  freer  air, 
Returning  life  repaid  their  care. 
He  gazed  on   them  with  heavy  sigh, — 
"  I  could  have  wish'd  even  thus  to  die !" 
No  more  lie  said — for  now  with  speed 
Each  trooper  had  regain'd  his  steed ; 
The  ready  palfreys  stood  array'd, 
For  Redmond  and  for  Rokeby's  Maid ; 
Two  Wilfrid  on  his  horse  sustain, 
One  leads  his  charger  by  the  rein. 
But  oft  Matilda  look'd  behind, 
As  up  the  Vale  of  Tees  they  wind, 
Where  far  the  mansion  of  her  sires 
Beacon'd  the  dale  with  midnight  fires. 
In  gloomy  arch  above  them  spread, 
The  clouded  heaven  lower'd   bloody  red ; 
Beneath,  in  sombre  light,  the  flood 
Appear'd  to  roll  in  waves  of  blood. 
Then,  one  by  one,  was  heard  to  foil 
The  tower,  the  donjon-keep,  the  hall. 
Eagh  rushing  down  with    thunder  sound, 
A  space  the  conflagration  drown'd ; 
Till,  gathering  strength,  again  it  rose, 
Announc'd  its  triunij)h   in  its  close, 
Shook  wide  its  light  the  landscape  o'er,  . 
Then  sunk — and  Rokeby  was  no  more ! 


]79 


CAMPBELL. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 


Our  bujiles  sans  truce — for  the  niarht-cloud  had  lower'd, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky ; 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowerd, 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain, 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw ; 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array. 
Far,  far  I  had  roam'd  on  a  desolate  track, 

Till  Autumn — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 

To  the  house  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields,  travers'd  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  Avas  young ; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft. 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore 

From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  jiart ; 

My  little  ones  kiss'd  me  a  thousand   times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobb'd  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

"Stay — stay  with  us! — rest!   thou  art  Aveary  and  Avorn  !" — ■ 
(And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay ;) 

But  sorrow  return'd  Avith  the  daAvning  of  morn. 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away ! 

180 


CAMPBELL. 


THE  EXILE  OF  ERIN. 


There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  Exile  of  Erin, 
The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill ; 

F'or  his  country  he  sigh'd,  when  at  twilight  repairing 
To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 

But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion  ; 

P^or  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean, 

Where  once,  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful  emotion, 
He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin-go-bragh. 

"Sad  is  my  fate!"   said   the  heart-broken  stranger: 
"The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  tlee, 

But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger,- 
A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  to  me. 

Never  again,  in  the  gi'een  sunny  bowers 

Where  my  forefathers  lived,  shall  I  spend  the  sweet  hours 

Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild-woven  flowers, 
And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin-go-bragh. 

"Erin,  my  country!    though  sad  and  forsaken. 
In  dreams  I  I'evisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore ; 

But,  alas !    in  a  far  foreign  land  I  awaken, 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet   me  no  more  I 

Oh  cruel  fate  !    wilt   thou  never  replace  me 

In  a  mansion  of  peace,  where  no  perils  can  chase  me? 

Never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me ! 
They  dii'd   to  dof(>nd   nic,  or  live  to  deplore  I 

"Where  is  my  cabin-door,  fast  by  the  wild  wtiod? 

Sisters  and  sire!    did  ye  Aveep  for  its   fall  .' 
Where  is  the  mother  that  look'd  on   my  childhood? 

And  where  is  the  bosom-friend,  dearer  than  all? 

181 


Ah!    my  sad  heart!    long  abandon'd  by  pleasure! 
Why  did  it  dote  on  a  fast-fading  treasure? 
Tears,  like  the  rain-drop,  may  fall  without  measure, 
But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall. 


"Yet  all  its  sad  recollections  suppressing, 
One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw : 

Erin !    an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing, 
Land  of  my  forefathers  !      Erin-go-bragh ! 

Buried  and  cold,  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion. 

Green  be  thy  fields,  sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean ! 

And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud  Avith  devotion,- 
'  El  in  mavournin, — Erin-go-bragh  !'  " 

1S2 


CAMPBELL. 


DRINKING  SONG  OF  MUNICH. 


Saveet  Iser!    were  thy  sunny  realm 

And  flowery  gardens  mine, 
Thy  waters  I  would  shade  with  elm, 

To  j5rop  the  tender  vine. 
My  golden  flagons  I  would  fill 
With  rosy  draughts  from  every  hill ; 

And,  under  each  green  spreading  bower^ 
^^y  g^y  companions  should  prolong 
The  feast,  the  revel,  and  the  song, 

To  many  an  idle  sportive  hour. 

Like  rivers  crimson'd  by  the  beam 
■  Of  yonder  planet  bright, 
Our  balmy  cups  should  ever  stream 

Profusion  of  delight; 
No  care  should  touch  the  mellow  heart. 
And  sad  or  sober  none  depart; 

(For  wine  can  triumph  over  woe ;) 
And  Love  and  Bacchus,  brother  powers, 
Should  build  in  Iser's  sunny  bowers 

A  Paradise  below? 


183 


LOCHIEL'S  WARNING. 


LOCIIIEL'S  WARNING. 


WIZARD. 


LocuiEL,  Lochiel,  beware  of  the  day, 
When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle-array! 
For  a  iield  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 
And  the  clans  of  Culloden  are  scattered  in  light : 
They  rally,  they  bleed  for  their  kingdom  and  crown, — 
Woe,  woe  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down! 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain, 
And  tlieir  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the  plain. 
liut  hark !    through   the  fast-flashing  lightning  of  war, 
Wliat  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far? 
'Tis  thine,  O  Glenullin !    whose  bride  shall  await, 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning — no  rider  is  there ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 
Weep,  Albin!    to  death  and  captivity  led; 
Oh,  weep !    l)ut  thy  tears  cannot  number  the  dead  ; 
I^'or  a  merciless  sword  on   Culloden  shall  wave — 
Culloden  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave. 


LOCHIEL. 


Co,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer! 
Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear, 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight. 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 


WIZAUD. 


Ila!    laugh'st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn"? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be   torn ! 
Say,  rush'd  the  bold  eagle  cxultingly  forth. 
From  his  homo,  in   the  dark-rolling  clouds  of  the  North  ? 


184 


CAMPBELL. 

Lo !    the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeeding,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad : 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high  ! 
Ah !    home  let  him  speed — for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit?     Vfhj  shoot  to  the  bh'.st 
Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament  cast  ? 
'Tis  the  hre'Show'r  of  Kuin,  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  his  eyrie,  that  beacons  the  darkness  of  heaven. 
O  crested  Lochiel !    the  peerless  in  might. 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlement's  height, 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  burn  ; 
Return   to  thy  dwelling !    all  lonely  return ! 
r^or  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood. 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing  brood. 

LOCIIIEL. 

False  AVizard,  avaunt !    I  have  marshall'd  my  clan  : 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are  one ! 
They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their  breatl 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be.  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock  I 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam,  like  a  wave  on   the  I'ock  I 
But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  Avoe  to  his  cause, 
When  Alljin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws! 
When  her  l)onneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clani'onald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud. 
All  plaided  and  [)lumed  in  their  tartan  array — 

wizAi;i). 

— Lochiel,  Lochiel !    beware  of  the  day ; 
For,  dark  ami  despairing,  my  sight    I    may  seal, 
But  man  cannot  cover  what   Ciod   would  reveal : 
'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  east  their  shadows  before. 
I   tell   thee,  CuUoden's  dread   echoes   shall  ring 
With    the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive  king. 

185 


LOCHIEL'S  WARNING. 

Lo !    anointed  by  Heaven  with  tlie  vials  of  wrath, 

Behold,  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path! 

Now,  in  darkness  and  billows,  he  sweeps  from  my  sight — 

Rise !    rise !    ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight !  .   .   .   . 

.  .   .  'Tis  finish'd.      Their  thunders  are  hush'd  on  the  moors ; 

Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 

But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  ?     Where "? 

For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 

Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banish'd,  forlorn. 

Like  a  limb  froip  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn  ? 

Ah,  no !    for  a  darker  dejmrture  is  near ; 

The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier ; 

His  death-bell  is  tolling ;    oh !    mercy,  dispel 

Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell ! 

Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs, 

And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims. 

Accurs'd  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 

Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown,  ere  it  ceases  to  beat, 

With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale — 

LOCIIIEL. 

— Down,  soothless  in  suiter !    I  trust  not  the  tale ; 

For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet 

So  black  with  dishonour,  so  foul  with  retreat. 

Tho'  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strew'd  in  their  gore, 

Like  ocean-weeds  heap'd  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 

Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 

While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains. 

Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low. 

With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe! 

And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 

Look  proudly  to  Heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  fame. 


186 


CAMPBELL. 


HOHENLINDEN. 


On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low. 
All  bloodless  lay  th'   untrodden  snow  ; 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
"When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  toi'ch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd. 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh' d. 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills,  with  thunder  riven  ; 
Then  rush'd  the  steed  to  battle  driven ; 
And,  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flash'd  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet   that   light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stainrd  snow. 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  How 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
"Where  furious  Frank,  and  fiery  llun. 
Shout  in  their  sulph'rous  canopy, 

187 


HOHENLINDEN. 


The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  l>rave, 
Who  rusli  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 
Wave,  Munich,  all   thy  banners  wave ! 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 

188 


CAMPBELL. 

Few,  few  shall  part,  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  windino;-sheet. 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre ! 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 
Op  Nelson  and  the  North, 


*5 


Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown. 

And  her  ai'ms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone ; 

l>y  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 

In  a  bold  determined  hand. 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. — 

Like  leviathans  afloat, 

Lay  tlieir  l)ulwarks  on   tlie  brine  ; 

"Wliile  the  sign   of  l)attle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line : 

It  Avas  ten  of  April  morn  l>y  the  chime: 

As  they  drifted  on   their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death ; 

And  tlie  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time. — 

But  the  might  of  England  flush'd 
To  anticipate  the  scene  ; 
And  her  van  the  fleeter   rush'd 
O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

"Hearts  of  oak!"  our  captain  cried;    Aviien  each  gun 

IS'J 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 

From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 

Of  the  sun. — 

Again  !    again  !    again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back ; 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom: 

Then  ceas'd — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shatter'd  sail ; 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 

Light  the  gloom.— 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hail'd  them  o'er  the  wave : 

"  Ye  are  brothers !    ye  are  men ! 

And  Ave  conquer  but  to  save : — 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring : 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King." — 

Then  Denmark  blest  our  chief 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  Death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day; 

Wliile  the   sun  look'd  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. — 

Now  joy.  Old  England,  raise ! 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 

lUO 


CAMPBELL. 

By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 

"Wliilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light ; 

And  yet,  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep. 

Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 

By  thy  Avild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore ! — 

Brave  hearts !    to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true. 

On  the  deck  of  lame  that  died, 

With  the  gallant,  good  Riou ; — 

Soft  sio-h  the  Avinds  of  Heaven  o'er  their  crave ! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 

And  the  mei'maid's  song  condoles. 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  bi'ave! 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND. 


Ye  IMariners  of  England ! 

That  guai-d  our  native  seas ; 

AVhose  flag  has  braved,  a  lliousand  years. 

The  battle  and  the  breeze! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again, 

To  match  another  foe ! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


The  spirits  of  your  fathers 
Shall  start  from  every  wave ! 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 
And  Ocean  was  their  grave : 
Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 
Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep. 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

192 


CAilPBELL. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 

Her  march  is  on  the  mountain-waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak. 

She  quells  the  floods  below — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn, 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean- warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

AVlien  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more. 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


193 


WILDE. 

STANZAS. 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 

Is  scatter'd  on  the  ground — to  die ! 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
Its  hold  is  frail — its  date  is  brief. 

Restless — and  soon  to  pass  away ! 
Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade. 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree. 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me ! 


*D' 


My  life  is  like  the  prints,  which  feet 

Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand ; 
Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat. 

All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand; 
Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 
All  vestige  of  the  human  race. 
On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea, 
But  none,  alas !    shall  mourn  for  me ! 


104 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

THE  DEATH  OF  ADAM. 

The  sun,  in  summer  majesty  on  high, 

Darted  his  fierce  effulgence  down  the  sky  ; 

Yet  dimm'd  and  blunted  were  the  dazzling  rays, 

His  orb  expanded  through  a  dreary  haze, 

And,  circled  with  a  red  portentous  zone, 

He  look'd  in  sickly  horror  from  his  throne  : 

When  higher  noon  had  shrunk  the  lessenino;  shade. 

Thence  to  his  home  our  father  we  convey' d, 

And  stretch'd  him,  pillow'd  with  his  latest  sheaves. 

On  a  fresh  couch  of  green  and  fragrant  leaves. 

Here,  though  his  sufferings  througli  the  glen  Avere  known, 

"We  chose  to  watch  his  dying-bed  alone, 

Eve,  Seth,  and  I. — In  vain  he  sigh'd  for  rest, 

And  oft  his  meek  complainings  thus  express'd : 

"Blow  on  me,  Wind!    I  faint  with  heat!     O  bring 

Delicious  water  from  the  deepest  spring ; 

Your  sunless  shadows  o'er  my  limbs  diffuse, 

Ye  Cedars !    wash  me  cold  with  midnight  dews ; 

Cheer  me,  my  friends !    with  looks  of  kindness  cheer ; 

Whisper  a  word  of  comfort  in  mine  ear ; 

These  sorrowing  faces  fill  my  soul  with  gloom — 

This  silence  is  the  silence  of  the  tomb." 

The  sun  went  down,  anudst  an  angry  glare 
Of  flushing  clouds,  that  crimson'd  all  the  air  ; 
The  winds  brake  loose ;    the  forest-boughs  were  torn, 
And  dark  aloof  the  eddying  foliage  borne ; 

195 


THE  DEATH  OF  ADAM. 

Cattle  to  shelter  scudded  in  affright ; 

The  florid  Evening  vanish'd  into  night : 

Then  burst  the  hurricane  upon  the  vale, 

In  peals  of  thunder,  and  thick- volley' d  hail ; 

Prone  rushing  rains  vi'ith  tori-ents  whelm'd  the  land ; 

Our  cot  amidst  a  river  seem'd  to  stand ; 

Around  its  base,  the  foamy-crested  streams 

Flash'd  through  the  darkness  to  the  lightning's  gleams  ; 

Wrth  monstrous  throes  an  earthquake  heaved  the  ground ; 

The  rocks  were  rent,  the  mountains  trembled  round. 

Amidst  this  war  of  elements,  within 
More  dreadful  grew  the  sacrifice  of  sin, 
Whose  victim  on  his  bed  of  torture  lay, 
Breathing  the  slow  remains  of  life  away. 
Erewhile,  victorious  ftiith  sublimer  rose 
Beneath  the  pressure  of  collected  woes ; 
But  now  his  spirit  waver'd,  went  and  came, 
Like  the  loose  vapour  of  departing  flame. 
Till  at  the  point,  when  comfort  seem'd  to  die 
For  ever  in  his  fix'd  unclosing  eye. 
Bright  through  the  smouldering  ashes  of  the  man, 
The  saint  brake  forth,  and  Adam  thus  began : — 
"  O  ye  who  shudder  at  this  awful  strife, 
This  wrestling  agony  of  Death  and  Life, 
Think  not  that  He,  on  whom  my  soul  is  cast, 
Will  leave  me  thus  forsaken  to  the  last ; 
Nature's  infirmity  alone  you  see  ; 
My  chains  are  breaking,  I  shall  soon  be  free : 
Though  firm  in  God  the  spirit  holds  her  trust, 
The  flesh  is  frail,  and  trembles  into  dust. 
Thou,  of  my  faith  the  Author  and  the  End  I 
Mine  early,  late,  and  everlasting  Friend ! 
The  joy,  that  once  Thy  presence  gave,  restore, 
Ere  I  am  summon'd  hence,  and  seen  no  more  ; 
Down  to  the  dust  returns  this  earthly  frame — 
Receive  my  spirit.  Lord !    from  whom  it  came." 

196 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

He  closed  his  eyelids  with  a  tranquil  smile, 
And  seem'd  to  rest  in  silent  prayer  awhile : 
Around  his  couch  with  filial  awe  we  kneel'd, 
When  suddenly  a  light  from  heaven  reveal'd 
A  Spirit,  that  stood  within  the  unopen'd  door, 
The  sword  of  God  in  his  right  hand  he  bore ; 
His  countenance  was  lightning,  and  his  vest 
Like  snow  at  sun-rise  on  the  mountain's  crest ; 
Yet  so  benignly  beautiful  his  form. 
His  presence  still'd  the  fury  of  the  storm; 
At  once  the  winds  retire,  the  waters  cease ; 
His  look  was  love,  his  salutation  "  Peace !" 

Our  Mother  first  beheld  him,  sore  amazed. 
But  terror  grew  to  transport,  while  she  gazed.— 
"  'Tis  he,  the  Prince  of  Seraphim !    who  drove 
Our  banish'd  feet  from  Eden's  happy  grove. 
Adam,  my  Life,  my  Spouse,  awake!"  she  cried; 
"  Return  to  Paradise  ;    behold  thy  Guide  ! 
O  let  me  follow  in  this  dear  embrace !" 
She  sunk,  and  on  his  bosom  hid  her  face. 
Adam  look'd  up;    his  visage  changed  its  hue, 
Transfbrm'd  into  an  Angel's  at  the  view. 
"I  come!"  he  cried,  with  faith's  full  triumph  fir'd, 
And  in  a  sigh  of  ecstasy  expir'd. 
The  light  was  vanish'd,  and  t^e  vision  fled ; 
We  stood  alone,  the  living  with  the  dead ; 
The  ruddy  embers,  glimmering  round  the  room, 
Display'd  the  corpse  amidst  the  solemn  gloom ; 
But  o'er  the  scene  a  holy  calm  repos'd. 
The  gate  of  heaven  liad  opcn'd  there,  and  clos'd. 


197 


JOANNA  BAILLIE. 


THE  PHRENZY  OF  ORRA. 


Hartman.  Is  she  well? 

Theobald.     Her  body  is. 

Hart.     And  not  her  mind?    oh,  direst  Avreek  of  all! 
That  noble  mind ! — But  'tis  some  passing  seizure, 
Some  powerful  movement  of  a  ti'ansient  nature ; 
It  is  not  madness ! 

Theo.     'Tis  Heaven's  infliction ;    let  us  call  it  so ; 
Give  it  no  other  name. 

Eleanora.     Nay,  do  not  thus  despair ;    when  she  beholds  us, 
She'll  know  her  friends,  and,  by  our  kindly  soothing. 
Be  gradually  restored — 

Alice.     Let  me  go  to  her. 

Theo.     Nay,  forbear,  I  pray  thee ; 
I  will  myself  with  thee,  my  \tt|rthy  Hartman, 
Go  in  and  lead  her  forth. 

Orra.     Come  back,  come  back !    the  fierce  and  fiery  light ! 

Theo.     Shrink  not,  dear  love !    it  is  the  light  of  day. 

Orra.     Have  cocks  crow'd  yet? 

Theo.     Yes ;    twice  I've  heard  already 
Their  matin  sound.     Look  up  to  the  blue  sky — 
Is  it  not  daylight  there?     And  these  green  boughs 
Are  fresh  and  fragrant  round  thee ;    every  sense 
Tells  thee  it  is  the  cheerful  early  day. 

Orra.     Aye,  so  it  is;    day  takes  his  daily  turn, 
Rising  between  the  gulfy  dells  of  night, 
Like  whiten'd  billows  on  a  gloomy  sea. 

198 


JOANNA  BAILLIE. 

Till  glow-worms  gleam,  and  stars  peep  through  the  dark, 

And  will-o'-the-wisp  his  dancuig  taper  light, 

They  will  not  come  again.  •' 

\_Bending  her  ear  to  tlve,  ground. 
Hark,  hark  !    aye,  hark ! 
They  are  all  there :    I  hear  theii*  hollow  sound 
Full  many  a  fathom  down. 

Theo.     Be  still,  poor  troubled  soul !    they'll  ne'er  return — 
They  are  for  ever  gone.     Be  well  assured 
Thou  shalt  from  henceforth  have  a  cheerful  home, 
With  crackling  fagots  on  thy  midnight  fire. 
Blazing  like  day  around  thee ;    and  thy  friends — 
Thy  living,  loving  friends — still  by  thy  side. 
To  speak  to  thee  and  cheer  thee.     See,  my  Orra! 
They  are  beside  thee  now ;    dost  thou  not  know  them  ? 

Orra.     No,  no !    athwart  the  wav'ring  garish  light, 
Things  move  and  seem  to  be,  and  yet  are  nothing. 

Elea.     My  gentle  Orra !    hast  thou  then  forgot  me  ? 
Dost  not  thou  know  my  voice? 

Orra.     'Tis  like  an  old  tune  to  my  ear  return'd. 
For  there  be  those  who  sit  in  cheerful  halls. 
And  breathe  sweet  air,  and  speak  with  pleasant  sounds ; 
And  once  I  liv'd  with  such ;    some  years  gone  by, — 
I  wot  not  now  how  long. 

Hughobert.    Keen  words  that  rend  my  heart !   thou  hadst  a  home, 
And  one  whose  faith  was  pledged  for  thy  protection. 

Urston.     Be  more  composed,  my  Lord ;  some  faint  remembrance 
Returns  upon  her,  with  the  well-known  sound 
Of  voices  once  familiar  to  her  ear. 
Let  Alice  sing  to  her  some  fav'rite  tune, 
That  may  lost  thoughts  recall. 

\_Alice  singf. 

Orra.     Ha,  ha !    the  witch'd  air  sings  for  thee  bravely. 
Hoot  owls  throuirh   mantlin";  fog  for  matin  birds? 
It  lures  not  me. — I  know  tliee  well  enough  : 
The  bones  of  murder'd  men  thy  measure  beat. 
And  fleshless  heads  nod  to  thee — Off,  I  say ! 

199 


THE  PHRENZY  OF  ORRA. 

Why  are  ye  here? — That  is  the  blessed  sun. 

Elea.     Ah,  Orra !    do  not  look  upon  us  thus ; 
These  are  the  voices  of  thy  loving  friends 
That  speak  to  thee ;    this  is  a  friendly  hand 
That  presses  thine  so  kindly. 

Hart.     Oh,  grievous  state !    vs^hat  terror  seizes  thee  ? 

Orra.     Take  it  away !     It  was  the  swathed  dead ; 
I  know  its  clammy,  chill,  and  bony  touch. 
Come  not  again ;    I'm  strong  and  terrible  now : 
Mine  eyes  have  look'd  upon  all  dreadful  things ; 
And  when  the  earth  yawns,  and  the  hell-blast  sounds, 
I'll  bide  the  trooping  of  unearthly  steps. 
With  stiff,  clench'd,  terrible  strength. 

Hugh.     A  murd'rer  is  a  guiltless  wretch  to  me. 

Hart.     Be  patient ;    'tis  a  momentary  pitch ; 
Let  me  encounter  it. 

Orra.     Take  off  from  me  thy  strangely-fasten'd  eye ; 
I  may  not  look  vipon  thee — yet  I  must. 
Unfix  thy  baleful  glance.     Art  thou  a  snake "? 
Something  of  horrid  power  within  thee  dwells. 
Still,  still  that  powerful  eye  doth  suck  me  in 
Like  a  dark  eddy  to  its  wheeling  core. 
Spare  me !    O  spare  me,  Being  of  strange  power, 
And  at  thy  feet  my  subject  head  I'll  lay. 

Elea.     Alas,  the  piteous  sight !    to  see  her  thus. 
The  noble,  generous,  playful,  stately  Orra! 

Theo.     Out  on  thy  hateful  and  ungenerous  guile! 
Think'st  thou  I'll  suffer  o'er  her  wretched  state 
The  slightest  shadow  of  a  base  control? 

{Raising  Orra  from  the  ground. 
No ;    rise,  thou  stately  flower  with  rude  blasts  rent ; 
As  honour'd  art  thou  with  thy  broken  stem 
And  leaflets  strew'd,  as  in  thy  summer's  pride. 
I've  seen  thee  worshipp'd  like  a  regal  Dame, 
With  every  studied  form  of  mark'd  devotion, 
Wliilst  I,  in  distant  silence,  scarcely  profFer'd 
Ev'n  a  plain  soldier's  courtesy;    but  now, 

200 


JOANNA  BAILLIE. 

No  liege  man  to  his  cro'ftiied  mistress  sworn, 

Bound  and  devoted  is  as  I  to  thee ; 

And  he  who  offers  to  thy  alter'd  state  '* 

The  slightest  seeming  of  diniinish'd  rev'rence, 

Must  in  my  blood — (To  Hartman) — O  pardon  me,  my  friend ! 

Thou'st  \\Tung  my  heart. 

Hart.     Nay,  do  thou  pardon  me, — I  am  to  blame : 
Thy  nobler  heart  shall  not  again  be  "vvTung. 
But  what  can  now  be  done  ?     O'er  such  wild  ravings 
There  must  be  some  control. 

Theo.     O  none !    none !    none !    but  gentle  sympathy, 
And  watchfulness  of  love. 

My  noble  Orra! 
Wander  where'er  thou  yn\i,  thy  vagi-ant  steps 
Shall  follow'd  be  by  one,  who  shall  not  weary. 
Nor  e'er  detach  him  from  his  hopeless  task ; 
Bound  to  thee  now  as  fairest,  gentlest  beauty 
Could  ne'er  have  bound  him. 

Alice.     See  how  she  gazes  on  him  with  a  look, 
Subsiding  gradually  to  softer  sadness. 
Half  saying  that  she  knows  him. 

El     There  is  a  kindness  in  her  changing  eye. 


201 


GEAHAME. 


THE    SABBATH. 


How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallow'd  day! 
Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labour,  hush'd 
The  plough-boy's  whistle,  and  the  milk-maid's  song. 
The  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers, 
That  yestermorn  bloom'd  waving  in  the  breeze ; 
Sounds  the  most  faint  attract  the  ear, — the  hum 
Of  early  bee,  the  trickling  of  the  dew, 
The  distant  bleating,  midway  up  the  hill. 
Calmness  sits  throned  on  yon  unmoving  cloud. 
To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland  leas, 
The  blackbird's  note  comes  mellower  from  the  dale ; 
And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  his  heaven-tun'd  song ;    the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep- worn  glen ; 
Wliile  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose  circling  smoke 
O'er-mounts  the  mist,  is  heard,  at  intervals. 
The  voice  of  Psalms,  the  simple  song  of  praise. 
With  dove-like  wings  Peace  o'er  yon  village  broods ; 
The  dizzying  mill-wheel  rests ;    the  anvil's  din 
Hath  ceas'd ;    all,  all  around  is  quietness. 
Less  fearful  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 

202 


Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks  on  man, 
Her  deadliest  foe.     The  toil-worn  liorse,  set  free, 
Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at  large ; 
And  as  his  stiff  unwieldy  bulk  he  rolls, 
His  iron-arm'd  hoofs  gleam  in  the  mornhig  ray. 

203 


SUNDAY  TO  THE  SHIPWRECKED. 


SUNDAY  TO  THE  SHIPWRECKED. 


Oh!    my  heart  bleeds  to  think  there  jiow  may  live 

One  hapless  man,  the  remnant  of  a  wreck, 

Cast  on  some  desert  island  of  that  main 

Immense,  which  stretches  from  the  Cochin  shore 

To  Acapulco.     Motionless  he  sits, 

As  is  the  rock  his  seat,  gazing  whole  days, 

With  wandering  eye,  o'er  all  the  watery  waste; 

Now  striving  to  believe  the  albatross 

A  sail  appearing  on  the  horizon's  verge ; 

Now  vowing  ne'er  to  cherish  other  hope 

Than  hope  of  death.     Thus  pass  his  weary  hours, 

Till  welcome  evening  warn  him  that  'tis  time 

Upon  the  well-notch'd  calendar  to  mark 

Another  day,  another  dreary  day, — 

Changeless. 

But  yet  by  him, 
The  Hermit  of  the  Deep,  not  unobserv'd 
The  Sabbath  passes; — 'tis  his  great  delight. 
Each  seventh  eve  he  marks  the  farewell  ray. 
And  loves,  and  sighs  to  think, — that  setting  sun 
Is  now  empurpling  Scotland's  mountain-tops, 
Or,  higher  risen,  slants  athwart  her  vales. 
Tinting  with  yellow  light  the  quivering  throat 
Of  day-spring  lark,  Avhile  woodland  birds  below 
.Chaunt  in  the  dewy  shade.     Thus,  all  night  long 
He  watches,  while  the  rising  moon  describes 
The  progress  of  the  day  in  happier  lands. 
And  now  he  almost  fancies  that  he  hears 
The  chiming  from  his  native  village  church : 

204 


GRAHAME. 

And  now  he  sings,  and  fondly  hopes  the  strahi 
May  be  the  same  that  sweet  ascends  at  home 
In  congregation  full, — where,  not  without  a  tear,' 
They  are  remember'd  who  in  ships  behold 
The  wonders  of  the  deep :    he  sees  the  hand. 
The  widow'd  hand,  that  veils  the  eye  suffus'd ; 
He  sees  his  orphan'd  boy  look  up,  and  strive 
The  Avidow'd  heart  to  soothe.     His  spii'it  leans 
On  God— 

— Calm  he  views 
The  far-exploding  firmament,  and  dares 
To  hope — one  bolt  in  mercy  is  reserv'd 
For  his  release ;    and  yet  he  is  resign'd 
To  live :    because  full  well  he  is  assur'd 
Thy  Hand  does  lead  him,  thy  right  Hand  upholds. 
And  thy  right  Hand  does  lead  him !     Lo !    at  last. 
One  sacred  eve,  he  hears,  faint  from  the  deep, 
Music  remote,  swelling  at  intervals. 
As  if  the  embodied  spirit  of  sweet  sounds 
Came  slowly  floating  on  the  shoreward  wave : 
The  cadence  well  he  knows — a  hymn  of  old, 
Where  sweetly  is  rehears'd  the  lowly  state 
Of  Jesus,  when  his  birth  was  first  announced. 
In  midnight  music,  by  an  angel  choir, 
To  Bethlehem's  shepherds,  as  they  watch'd  their  flocks. 
Breathless,  the  man  forlorn  listens,  and  thinks 
It  is  a  dream.     Fuller  the  voices  swell ; 
He  looks,  and  starts  to  see,  moving  along, 
A  fiery  wave,  (so  seems  it,)  crescent  form'd. 
Approaching  to  the  land ;    straightway  he  sees 
A  towering  whiteness ;    'tis  the  heaven-fill'd  sails 
That  waft  the  mission'd  men,  Avho  have  renounced 
Their  homes,  their  covnitry,  nay,  almost  the  woi'ld, 
Bearing  glad  tidings  to  the  farthest  isles 
Of  ocean,  that  tlie  dead  shall  rise  again. 
Foi'ward  the  gleam-girt  castle  coast-wise  glides, 
It  seems  as  it  would  pass  away. — To  cry 

205 


A  SABBATH  WALK  IN  SUMMER. 

The  wretched  man  in  vain  attempts,  in  vain, 

Powerless  his  voice  as  in  a  fearful  dream — 

Not  so  his  hand;    he  strikes  a  flint, — a  blaze 

Mounts  from  the  ready  heap  of  wither' d  leaves: 

The  music  ceases ;    accents  harsh  succeed, 

Harsh,  but  most  grateful ;    downward  drop  the  sails  ; 

Ingulf'd  the  anchor  sinks ;    the  boat  is  launch'd ; 

But  cautious  lies  aloof  till  morning  dawn : 

Oh  then  the  transport  of  the  man,  unus'd 

To  other  human  voice  beside  his  OAvn, — 

His  native  tongue  to  hear !    he  breathes  at  home. 

Though  earth's  diameter  is  interpos'd. 

Of  perils  of  the  sea  he  has  no  dread. 

Full  well  assur'd  the  mission'd  bark  is  safe, 

Held  in  the  hollow  of  the  Almighty's  Hand. 


A  SABBATH  WALK  IN  SUMMER. 


Delightful  is  this  loneliness;    it  calms 
My  heart ;    pleasant  the  cool  beneath  these  elms. 
That  throw  across  the  stream  a  moveless  shade. 
Here  Nature  in  her  midnoon  whisper  speaks : 
How  peaceful  every  sound!    the  ring-dove's  plaint, 
Moan'd  from  the  twlight  centre  of  the  grove, 
Wliile  every  other  Avoodland  lay  is  mute. 
Save  when  the  wren  flits  from  her  down-coved  nest, 
And  from  the  root-sprigs  trills  her  ditty  clear. — 
The  grasshopper's  oft  pausing  chirp, — the  buzz, 
Angrily  shrill,  of  moss-entangled  bee, 

206 


That,  soon  as  loos'd,  booms  with  full  twang  away, — 
The  sudden  rushhig  of  the  minnow  shoal, 
Scar'd  from  the  shallows  by  my  passing  tread. 
Dimpling  the  water  glides,  with  here  and  there 
A  glossy  fly,  skimming  in  circlets  gay 
The  treacherous  surface,  while  the  quick-eyed  trout 
Watches  his  time  to  spring;    or,  from  above, 

207 


A  SABBATH  WALK  IN  SUMMER. 

^^ome  feather' cl  dam,  purveying  'mong  the  boughs, 

Darts  from  her  perch,  and  to  her  plumeless  brood 

Bears  off  the  prize : — sad  emblem  of  man's  lot ! 

He,  giddy  insect,  from  his  native  leaf, 

(Where  safe  and  happily  he  might  have  lurk'd,) 

Elate  upon  ambition's  gaudy  wings. 

Forgetful  of  his  origin,  and,  worse. 

Unthinking  of  his  end,  flies  to  the  stream ; 

And  if  from  hostUe  vigilance  he  'scape, 

Buoyant  he  flutters  but  a  little  while. 

Mistakes  the  inverted  image  of  the  sky 

For  heaven  itself,  and,  sinking,  meets  his  fate. 

Now,  let  me  trace  the  stream  up  to  its  source 

Among  the  hills ;    its  runnel  by  degrees 

Diminishing,  the  murmur  turns  a  tinkle. 

Closer  and  closer  still  the  banks  approach, 

Tangled  so  thick  with  pleaching  bramble-shoots, 

With  brier,  and  hazel  branch,  and  hawthorn  spray. 

That,  fain  to  quit  the  dingle,  glad  I  mount 

Into  the  open  air ;    grateful  the  breeze 

That  fans  my  throbbing  temples !    smiles  the  plain 

Spread  wide  below :    how  sweet  the  placid  view ! 

But,  oh !    more  sweet  the  thought,  heart-soothing  thought, 

That  thousand  and  ten  thousands  of  the  sons 

Of  toil  partake  this  day  the  common  joy 

Of  rest,  of  peace,  of  viewing  hill  and  dale. 

Of  breathing  in  the  silence  of  the  woods, 

And  blessing  Him  who  gave  the  Sabbath-day. 

Yes,  my  heart  flutters  with  a  freer  throb, 

To  think  that  now  the  tovrasman  wanders  forth 

Among  the  fields  and  meadows,  to  enjoy 

The  coolness  of  the  day's  decline ;    to  see 

His  children  sport  around,  and  simply  pull 

The  flower  and  weed  promiscuous,  as  a  boon, 

Which  proudly  in  his  breast  they  smiling  fix. 


208 


GRAHAME. 

Again  I  turn  me  to  the  hill,  and  trace 
The  wizard  stream,  now  scarce  to  be  discern'd ; 
Woodless  its  banks,  but  green  with  ierny  leaves, 
And  thinly  strew'd  with  heath-bells  up  and  down. 

Now,  when  the  downward  sun  has  left  the  glens, 
Each  mountain's  rugged  lineaments  are  traced 
Upon  the  adverse  slope,  where  stalks  gigantic 
The  shepherd's  shadow  thrown  across  the  chasm. 
As  on  the  topmost  ridge  he  homeward  hies. 
How  deep  the  hush !    the  torrent's  channel,  dry, 
Presents  a  stony  steep,  the  echo's  haunt. 
But  hark,  a  plaintive  sound  floating  along! 
'Tis  from  yon  heath-roof 'd  shielin ;    now  it  dies 
Away,  now  rises  full ;    it  is  the  song 
Which  He  avIio  listens  to  the  halleluias 
Of  choiring  Seraphim  delights  to  hear ; 
It  is  the  music  of  the  heart,  the  voice 
Of  venerable  age, — of  guileless  youth, 
In  kindly  circle  seated  on  the  ground 
Before  their  wicker  door.     Behold  the  man ! 
The  grandsire  and  the  saint ;    his  silvery  locks 
Beam  in  the  parting  ray ;    before  him  lies, 
Upon  the  smooth-cropt  sward,  the  open  Book, 
His  comfort,  stay,  and  ever-new  delight ; 
While  heedless,  at  his  side,  the  lisping  boy 
Fondles  the  lamb  that  nightly  shares  his  couch. 


209 


BLOOMFIELD. 


LAMBS    AT     PLAY. 


Loosed  from  the  -winding  lane,  a  joyful  throng, 

See  o'er  yon  pasture  how  they  pour  along ! 

Giles  round  their  boundaries  takes  his  usual  stroll, 

Sees  every  gate  secur'd,  and  fences  whole: 

High  fences,  proud  to  charm  the  gazing  eye, 

Where  many  a  nestling  first  essays  to  fly ; 

Where  blows  the  woodbine,  faintly  streak' d  Avith  red, 

And  rests  on  every  bough  its  tender  head ; 

Round  the  young  ash  its  twining  branches  meet. 

Or  crown  the  hawthoi'n  with  its  odour  sweet. 

Say,  ye  that  know,  ye  who  have  felt  and  seen 

Spring's  morning  smiles,  and  soul-enlivening  green, 

Say,  did  you  give  the  thrilling  transport  way? 

Did  your  eye  brighten,  when  young  lambs  at  play 

Leap'd  o'er  your  path  with  animated  pride, 

Or  grazed  in  merry  clusters  by  your  side? 

Ye  who  can  smile,  to  wisdom  no  disgrace, 

At  the  arch  meaning  of  a  kitten's  face  ; 

If  spotless  innocence,  and  infant  mirth. 

Excites  to  praise,  or  gives  reflection  birth ; 

In  shades  like  these  pursue  your  favourite  joy, 

Midst  Nature's  revels,  sports  that  never  cloy. 

A  few  begin  a  short  but  vigorous  race. 
And  indolence,  abash'd,  soon  flies  the  place  : 
Thus  challeng'd  forth,  see  thither  one  by  one. 
From  every  side  assembling  playmates  run  ; 

210 


'=^s^^ 


.  ,_  *r  y-'  ^Vv  ;  / 


A  thousand  wily  antics  mark  tlieir  stay, 
A  starting  crowd  impatient  of"  delay. 
Like  the  fond  dove,  from  fearful  prison  freed. 
Each  seems  to  say,  "  Come,  let  us  try  our  speed ;" 
Away  they  scour,  imjietuous,  ardent,  strouir, 
The  green  turf  tremljling  as  they  bound  along; 
Adown  the  slope,  then  up  the  hillock  clitnb. 
Where  every  mole-hill  is  a  becl  of  tliynie. 
There  panting  stop ;    yet  scarcely  can  refrain ; 
A  bird,  a  leaf,  will  set  them  oif  again : 
Or,  if  a  gale  with  strength  unusual  blow, 
Scattering  the  wild-brier  roses  into  snow, 
Their  little  limbs  increasing  efforts  try, 
Like  the  torn  flower  the  fair  assemblage  fly. 

211 


THE  FARMER'S  BOY  IN  THE  FIELDS. 


THE  FARMER'S  BOY  IN  THE  FIELDS. 


Shot  up  from  broad  rank  blades  that  droop  below, 
The  nodding  wheat-ear  forms  a  graceful  bow, 
AVith  milky  kernels  starting  full,  weigh'd  down, 
Ere  yet  the  sun  hath  tinged  its  head  Avith  brown  ; 
Whilst  thousands  in  a  flock,  for  ever  gay. 
Loud-chirping  sparrows  welcome  in  the  day, 
And  from  the  mazes  of  the  leafy  thorn 
Drop  one  by  one  upon  the  bending  corn. 
Giles  with  a  pole  assails  their  close  retreats, 
And  round  the  grass-grown  dewy  border  beats ; 
On  either  side  completely  overspread, 
Here  branches  bend,  there  corn  o'ertops  his  head. 
Green  covert,  hail !    for  thro'  the  varying  year 
No  hours  so  sweet,  no  scene  to  him  so  dear. 
Here  Wisdom's  placid  eye  delighted  sees 
His  frequent  intervals  of  lonely  ease. 
And  with  one  ray  his  infant  soul  inspires, 
Just  kindling  there  her  never-dying  fires. 
Whence  solitude  derives  peculiar  charms, 
And  heaven-directed  thought  his  bosom  warms. 
Just  where  the  parting  bough's  light  shadows  play. 
Scarce  in  the  shade,  nor  in  the  scorching  day, 
Stretch'd  on  the  turf  he  lies,  a  peopled  bed, 
Where  swarming  insects  creep  around  his  head. 
The  small  dust-colour'd  beetle  climbs  with  pain 
O'er  the  smooth  plantain  leaf,  a  spacious  plain ! 
Thence  higher  still,  by  countless  steps  convey'd, 
He  gains  the  summit  of  a  shiv'ring  blade. 
And  flirts  his  filmy  wings,  and  looks  around, 
Exulting  in  his  distance  from  the  ground. 

212 


Tlie  tender  speckled  iiujtli  here  dancing  seen, 
The  vaulting  grasshopper  of  glossy  green, 
And  all   prolific  Summer's  sporting  train. 
Their  little  lives  by  various  powers  sustain. 
But   what   can   unassisted  vision  do? 
What,  l)ut   rcfoil   where  most  it  would  pursue; 
His  patient  gaze  but  finish   with  a  sigh, 
"When  music  Avaking  speaks  the  sky-lark   nigh  '. 

213 


THE  FARMER'S  BOY  IN  THE  FIELDS. 

Just  starting  from  the  corn  she  cheerly  sings. 
And  trusts  with  conscious  pride  her  downy  wings ; 
Still  louder  breathes,  and  in  the  face  of  day 
Mounts  up,  and  calls  on  Giles  to  mark  her  way. 
Close  to  his  eyes  his  hat  he  instant  bends. 
And  forms  a  friendly  telescope,  that  lends 
Just  aid  enough  to  dull  the  glaring  light. 
And  place  the  wandering  bird  before  his  sight ; 
Yet  oft  beneath  a  cloud  she  sweeps  along, 
Lost  for  awhile,  yet  pours  her  varied  song. 
He  views  the  spot,  and  as  the  cloud  moves  by, 
Again  she  stretches  up  the  clear  blue  sky; 
Her  form,  her  motion,  undistinguish'd  quite, 
Save  when  she  wheels  direct  from  shade  to  light  ; 
The  fluttering  songstress  a  mere  speck  became, 
Like  fancy's  floating  bubbles  in  a  dream ; 
He  sees  her  yet,  but  yielding  to  repose, 
Unwittingly  his  jaded  eyelids  close. 
Delicious  sleep!     From  sleep  who  could  forbear. 
With  no  more  guilt  than  Giles,  and  no  more  care  ? 
Peace  o'er  his  slumbers  waves  her  guardian  Aving, 
Nor  Conscience  once  disturbs  him  with  a  sting: 
Pie  wakes  refresh'd  from  every  trivial  pain. 
And  takes  his  pole  and  brushes  round  again. 


214 


ELLIOTT. 


BURNS. 


That  heaven's  belov'd  die  early, 

Prophetic  Pity  mourns; 
But  old  as  Truth,  although  in  youth, 

Died  giant-hearted  Burns. 

Oh  that  I  were  the  daisy 

That  sank  beneath  his  plough, 
Or,  "  neighbour  meet,"  that  "  skylark  sweet !" 

Say,  are  they  notliing  now? 

That  mouse,  "  our  fellow  mortal," 

Lives  deep  in  Nature's  heart ; 
Like  earth  and  sky,  it  cannot  die 

Till  earth  and  sky  depart. 

Thy  Burns,  child-honour'd  Scotland! 

Is  many  minds  in  one ; 
With  thought  on  thought,  the  name  is  fraught, 

Of  glory's  peasant  son. 

Thy  Chaucer  is  thy  IMilton, 

And  might  have  been  tliy  Tell ; 
As  Hampden  fouglit,  th^-  Sidney  wrote, 

And  would  have  foui^lit  as  well. 


n 


Be  proud,  man-childed  Scotland ! 

Of  earth's  unpolished  gem  ; 
And  "  Boiniy  Doon,"  and   "heaven  aboon," 

For  Burns  hath  hallowed  them. 
21.5 


A  POET'S  EPITAPH. 

Be  proud,  though   sin-dishonour'd. 

And  gi'ief  baptized  thy  child  ; 
As  rivers  run,  in  shade  and  sun, 

He  ran  his  courses  Avild. 

Grieve  not,  though  savage  forests 

Look'd  grimly  on  the  wave. 
Where  dim-eyed  flowers  and  shaded  bowers 

Seem'd  living  in  the  grave. 

Grieve  not,  though,  by  the  torrent. 
Its  headlong  course  was  riven, 

When  o'er  it  came,  in  clouds  and  flame, 
Niagara  from  heaven ! 

For  sometimes  gently  flowing. 
And  sometimes  chafed  to  foam, 

O'er  slack  and  deep,  by  wood  and  steep, 
He  sought  his  heavenly  home. 


A  POETS  EPITAPH. 


Stop,  Mortal!     Here  thy  brother  lies. 

The  Poet  of  the  poor ; 
His  books  were  rivers,  woods,  and  skies, 

The  meadow  and  the  moor ; 
His  teachers  were  the  torn  heart's  wail, 

The  tyrant  and  the  slave. 
The  street,  the  factory,  the  jail, 

The  palace — and  the  grave ! 
Sin  met  thy  lirothcr  every  where! 

And  is  tliy  brother  blamed! 
216 


ELLIOTT. 

From  passion,  danger,  doubt,  and  care, 

He  no  exemption  claim'd. 
The  meanest  thing,  earth's  feeblest  worm 

He  fear  d  to  scorn  or  hate  ; 
But,  honouring  in  a  peasant's  form 

The  equal  of  the  great. 
He  bless' d  the  Steward,  whose  wealth  makes 

The  poor  man's  little  more ; 
Yet  loath'd  the  haughty  wretch  that  takes 

From  plunder'd  labour's  store. 
A  hand  to  do,  a  head  to  plan, 

A  heart  to  feel  and  dare — 
Tell  man's  Avorst  foes,  here  lies  the  man 

AVho  drew  them  as  they  are. 


SPRING. 


Again  the  violet  of  our  early  days 

Drinks  beauteous  azure  from  the  golden  sun, 
And  kindles  into  fragrance  at  his  blaze ; 

The  streams,  rejoic'd  that  Winter's  work  is  done. 

Talk  of  to-morrow's  cowslips,  as  they  run. 
Wild  apple,  thou  art  blushing  into  bloom! 

Thy  leaves  are  coming,  snowy-blossom'd  thorn ! 
Wake,  buried  lily!    spirit,  (piit    thy  tomb! 

And  thou,  sliadc-Ioving  hyacinth,  be  born ! 

Then,  haste,  sweet  rose !    sweet  woodbine,  hymn   the  morn. 
Whose  dew-drops  shall   illume  with   pcai-lv  light 

Each  grassy  blade   tliat    thick  embattled  stands 
From  sea  to  sea.  while  daisies  infinite 

F])lirt  in  praise  tlieir  little  glowing  hands, 

O'er  every  hill   that  under  heav'n   expands. 

217 


MOOEE. 
THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  PERI  FOR  HINDA. 

Farewell,— farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter  ! 

(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea,) 
No  pearl  ever  lay,  under  Oman's  green  water. 

More  pure  in  its  shell   than  thy  Spirit  in   thee. 

Oh !    fair  as  tlie  sea-flower  close  to  thee  growing. 
How  light  was  thy  heart  till  love's  witchery  came, 

Like  the  wind  of  the  South  o'er  a  summer  lute  blowing, 
And  hush'd  all  its  music  and  wither'd  its  frame  ! 


But  long,  upon  Araby's  green  sunny  highlands. 
Shall  maids  and  their  lovers  remember  the  doom 

218 


MOORE. 

Of  her,  who  lies  sleeping  among  the  Pearl  Islands, 
With  nought  but   the  sea-star  to  light  up  her  tomb. 

And  still,  when  the  merry  date-season  is  burning. 

And  calls  to  the  palm-groves  the  young  and  the  old. 

The  happiest  there,  from  their  pastime  returning, 
At  sunset,  will  weep  when  thy  stoiy  is  told. 

The  young  village-maid,  when  with  flowers  she  dresses 
Her  dark  flowing  hair  for  some  festival  day. 

Will  think  of  thy  fate  till,  neglecting  her  tresses, 
She  mournfully  turns  from  the  mirror  away. 

Nor  shall  Iran,  belov'd  of  her  Hero !    forget  thee — 
Though  tyrants  watch  over  her  tears  as  they  start, 

Close,  close  by  the  side  of  that  Hero  she'll  set  thee, 
Embalm'd  in  the  innermost  shrine  of  her  heart. 

Farewell — be  it  ours  to  embellish  thv  pillow 

With  every  thing  beauteous  that  grows  in  the  deep ; 

Each  flower  of  the  rock  and  each  gem  of  the  billow 
Shall  sweeten  thy  bed  and  illumine  thy  sleep. 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  loveliest  amber 
That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea-bird  has  wept ; 

With  many  a  shell,  in  whose  hollow-wreath'd  chamber, 
We,  Peris  of  Ocean,  by  moonlight  have  slept. 

We'll  dive  where  the  gardens  of  coral  lie  darkling. 
And  plant  all  the  rosiest  stems  at  thy  liead  ; 

We'll  seek  where  the  sands  of  the  Caspian  are  sparkling. 
And  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over  thy  bed. 

Farewell: — farewell — until  Pity's  sweet  fountain 
Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair  and  the  brave. 

They'll  weep  for  the  Chieftnin  who  died  on  that  mountain. 
They'll  weep  for  the  ISlaiden   who  sleeps  in  this  wave. 

LM'J 


NOURMAHAL. 


NOURMAHAL. 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  EXPRESSION. 


There's  a  beauty,  for  ever  unchangingly  bright, 
Like  the  long  sunny  lapse  of  a  summer  day's  light, 
Shining  on,  shining  on,  by  no  shadow  made  tender, 
Till  Love  falls  asleep  in  the  sameness  of  splendour. 
This  was  not  the  beauty, — oh !    nothing  like  this. 
That  to  young  Nourmahal  gave  such  magic  of  bliss ; 
But  that  loveliness,  ever  in  motion,  which  plays 
Like  the  light  upon  autumn's  soft  shadowy  days. 
Now  here  and  now  there,  giving  warmth  as  it  flies 
From  the  lips  to  the  cheek,  from  the  cheek  to  the  eyes, 
Now  melting  in  mist,  and  now  breaking  in  gleams. 
Like  the  glimpses  a  saint  hath  of  Heav'n  in  his  dreams ! 
When  pensive,  it  seem'd  as  if  that  very  grace. 
That  charm  of  all  others,  was  born  with  her  face ; 
And  when  angry — for  ev'n  in   the  tranquillest  climes 
Light  breezes  will  ruffle  the  blossoms  sometimes — 
The  short,  passing  anger  but  seem'd  to  awaken 
New  beauty,  like  flow'rs  that  are  sweetest  Avhen  shaken. 
If  tenderness  touch'd  her,  the  dark  of  her  eye 
At  once  took  a  darker,  a  heavenlier  dye, 
From  the  depth  of  whose  shadow,  like  holy  revealings 
From  innermost  shrines,  came  the  liglit  of  her  feelings  I 
Then  her  mirth — oh !    'twas  sportive  as  ever  took  wing 
From  the  heart  with  a  burst,  like  the  wild-bird  in  spring 
Illum'd  by  a  wit  that  would  fascinate  sages. 
Yet  playful  as  Pei'is  just  loos'd  from  their  cages, 
AVhile  her  laugh,  full  of  life,  without  any  control 
But  the  sweet  one  of  gracefulness,  rung  from  her  soul ; 
And  where  it  most  sparkled  no  glance  could  discover. 
In  lip,  cheek,  or  eyes,  for  she  brighten'd  all  o\er, — 
Like  any  fair  lake  that  the  breeze  is  upon. 
When  it  breaks  into  dimples  and  laughs  in  the  sun.    • 

220 


WOLFE. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note. 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  tlie  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried 

We  buried  liira  darkly,  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning. 
By  the  struggling  moon-beam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimlv  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 
Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 
But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
AVitli  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  Ave  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sori'OAv ; 

And  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

"We  thought,  as  we  hoUow'd  his  narrow  bed. 

And  smooth'd  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head. 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly   ihcy'll    lalk   of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 
And  o'er  his   cold  ashes   upbraid   him  ; — 
]')Ut    little   he'll   reck,  if  they   let   him   sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton   has  laid   liini. 

But   half  of  our  hea\w  task  was  done, 
AVheu   the  clock  struck   the  hour  for  retiring; 

221 


"-':^5:S^^;^>.  ~=  — 


-;'     ^_' 


Aud  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
Of  the  enemy  sullenly  firing. 


Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 
From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 
We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone- 
But  we  left  him  alone  wath  his  glory ! 

222 


CUNNINGHAM. 


THE  POET'S  BRIDAL-DAY  SONG. 


Oh!    my  love's  like  the  steadfast  sun, 
Or  streams  that  deepen  as  they  run. 
Nor  hoary  hairs,  nor  forty  years, 
Nor  moments  betAveen  light  and  tears, 
Nor  nights  of  thought,  nor  days  of  pain, 
Nor  di'eams  of  glory  dream'd  in  vain ; 
Nor  mirth,  nor  sweetest  song  that  flows 
To  sober  joys,  and  softer  woes, 
Can  make  my  heart  or  fancy  flee, 
One  moment,  my  sweet  wife,  from  thee. 

Even  while  I  muse,  I  see  thee  sit 

In  maiden  bloom  and  matron  wit; 

Fair,  gentle  as  when  first  I  sued 

Ye  seem,  but  of  sedater  mood ; 

Y^'et  my  heart  leaps  as  fond  for  thee. 

As  when,  beneath  Arbigland  tree. 

We  stay'd  and  woo'd,  and  thought  the  moon 

Set  on   the   sea,  an   hour   too  soon, 

Or  linger'd  'mid   the   falling  dew. 

When  looks  were  fond,  and  words  were  few 

Tliough  I  see  smiling  at   my  feet 
Five  sons  and  one   fail-  tlanglitcr  sweet, 
And  time  and  care  and  birthtime   woes 
Have  dimm'd   tliine  eye,  and  touch'd   tliy  rose. 

223 


THE  POET'S  BRIDAL-DAY  SONG. 

To  thee,  and  thoughts  of  thee,  belong 
Whate'er  charms  me  in  tale  or  song. 
When  words  descend,  like  dews  unsought, 
With  gleams  of  deep  enthusiast  thought. 
And  Fancy  in  her  heaven  flies  free, 
They  come,  my  love,  they  come  from  thee. 

Oh,  when  more  thought  we  gave,  of  old, 
To  silver,  than  some  give  to  gold, 
'Twas  sweet  to  sit  and  ponder  o'er 
How  we  should  deck  our  humble  bower ; 
Twas  sweet  to  pull,  in  hope,  Avith  thee. 
The  golden  fruit  of  Fortune's  tree ; 
And  sweeter  still  to  choose  and  twine 
A  garland  for  that  brow  of  thine  : 
A  song-wreath  Avhich  may  grace  my  Jean, 
While  rivers  flow,  and  woods  grow  green. 

At  times  there  come,  as  come  there  ought. 
Grave  moments  of  sedater  thought. 
When  Fortune  frowns,  nor  lends  our  night 
One  gleam  of  her  inconstant  light ; 
And  Hope,  that  decks  the  peasant's  bower. 
Shines  like  a  rainbow  through  the  shower. 
Oh  then  I  see,  while  seated  nigh, 
A  mother's  heart  shine  in  thine  eye, 
And  proud  resolve  and  purpose  meek 
Speak  of  thee  more  than  words  can  speak. 
I  think  this  wedded  life  of  mine 
The  best  of  all  things  not  divine. 


224 


v^^  - 


A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA. 


A  AVET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind   that   follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail. 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast ; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

^Vhile,  like  the  eagle  free, 
225 


A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA. 

Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 
Old  England  on  the  lee. 

"Oh  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind!" 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high ; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free. — 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  tempest  in  yon  hornerl  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 
And  hai'k  the  music,  mariners ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud ; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys. 

The  lightning  flashino;  free — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 


226 


WALKER. 
TO  A  GIRL  IN  HER  THIRTEENTH  YEAR. 

Thy  smiles,  thy  talk,  thy  aimless  plays, 

So  beautiful  approve  thee, 
So  winning  light  are  all  thy  ways, 

I  cannot  choose  but  love  thee. 
Thy  balmy  breath  upon  my  Ijrow 

Is  like  the  summer  air. 
As  o'er  my  cheek  thou  leanest  now, 

To  plant  a  soft  kiss  there. 

Thy  steps  are  dancing  toward  the  bound 

Between  the  child  and  woman, 
And  thoughts  and  feelings  more  profound. 

And  other  years  are  coming : 
And  thou  shall  be  more  deeply  fair. 

More  pi-ecious  to  the  heart. 
But  never  canst  thou  be  again 

That  lovely  thing  thou  art ! 

And  youth  shall  pass,  Avith  all  the  brood 

Of  lancy-fcd  affection  ; 
And  grief  sliall  come   with   womanhood. 

And  waken  cold  reflection. 
Thou'lt  learn  to  toil,  and  watch,  and  weep 

O'er  pleasures  unreturning. 
Like  one  Avho  wakes  from  [)leasant  sleep 

Unto  the  cares  of  morning. 

Nay,  say  not  so !    nor  cloud  the  sun 

Of  joyous  expectation, 
Ordain'd  to  bless  the  little  one, 

The  freshling  of  creation ! 

227 


Nor  doubt  that  He  who  thus  doth  feed 
Her  early  lamp  with  gladness, 

Will  be  her  present  Help  in  need, 
Her  Comforter  in  sadness. 


Smile  on,  then,  little  winsome  thing ! 

All  rich  in  Nature's  treasure, 
Thou  hast  within  thy  heart  a  spring 

Of  self-renewing  pleasure. 
Smile  on,  fair  child,  and  take  thy  fill 

Of  mirth,  till  time  shall  end  it  ; 
'Tis  Nature's  Avise  and  gentle  Avill — 

And  who  shall  repi-ehend  it? 
228 


HOGG. 


THE  RAPTURE  OF  KILMENY. 


Bonny  Kilnieny  gaed  up  tlie  glen ; 

But  it  wasna  to  meet  Duneira's  men, 

Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle   to  see, 

For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 

It  was  only  to  hear  the  Yorlin  sing. 

And  pu'   the  cress-flower  round  the  spring; 

The  scarlet  hypp  and  the  hindberrye. 

And  the  nut  that  hangs  frae  the  haz#l-tree  ; 

For  Kilmeny  Avas  pure  as  pure  could  be. 

But  lang  may  her  minny  look  o'er  the  wa', 

And  lang  may  she  seek  i'   the  green-wood  slKn\-  : 

Lang  the  laird  of  Duneira  blame, 

And  lang,  lang  greet,  or  Kilmeny  come  hamc  ! 

When  many  a  day  had  come  and  fled, 
A\'hen  grief  grew  calm,  and  lioi»e  was  dead, 
When   mass  for  Kilmenv's  soul  had  been   sun"-. 
When   the  bedesman   had  prayM,  and   the  dead-bell   rung. 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamin'   when  all   was  still. 
When   the  fringe  was  red  on   \hr  westlin"   liill, 
The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon   i'   the  wane. 
The  reek  o'  the  cot  hung  over  the  plain, 
Like  a  little  wee  cloud   in   the   world   its  lane; 
AVhen   the   ingle  low'd   with   an   eiry  Icinc, 

22[) 


THE  RAPTURE  OF  KILMENY. 

Late,  late  in  the  gloamin'  Kilnieny  came  harae ! 

"  Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  ? 

Lang  hae  we  sought  baith  holt  and  den; 

By  linn,  by  ford,  by  green-wood  tree, 

Yet  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 

"Where  gat  you  that  joup  o'   the  lily  scheen? 

That  bonny  snood  o'  the  birk  sae  green? 

And  these  roses,  the  fairest  that  ever  were  seen"? 

Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  f 

Kilmeny  look'd  up  with  a  lovely  grace. 

But  nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny' s  face; 

As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was  her  e'e. 

As  the  stillness  that  lay  on  the  emerant  lea. 

Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a  waveless  sea. 

For  Kilmeny  had  been  she  knew  not  where. 

And  Kilmeny  had  seen  what  she  could  not  declare; 

Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock  never  crew. 

Where  the  rain  never  fell,  and  the  wind  never  blew; 

But  it  seem'd  as  the  harp  of  the  sky  had  rung. 

And  the  airs  of  heaven  play'd  round  her  tongue, 

When  she  .spake  of  the  lovely  forms  she  had  seen, 

And  a  land  where  sin  had  never  been; 

A  land  of  love  and  a  land  of  light, 

Withouten  sun,  or  moon,  or  night; 

Where  the  river  swa'd  a  living  stream. 

And  the  light  a  pure  celestial  beam : 

The  land  of  vision  it  Avould  seem, 

A  still,  an  everlasting  dream. 

In  yon  green-wood  there  is  a  walk. 

And  in  that  waik  there  is  a  Avene, 

And  in  that  wene  there  is  a  maike, 

That  neither  has  flesh,  blood,  nor  bane; 

And  down  in  yon  green-wood  he  walks  his  lane. 

In  that  green  Avene  Kilmeny  lay. 
Her  bosom  happ'd  wi'  the  flowerets  gay; 

230 


HOGG. 

But  the  air  Avas  soft,  and  the  silence  deep, 
And  bonny  Kihneny  fell  sound  asleep ; 
She  kcnd  nae  mair,  nor  open'd  her  e'e. 
Till  waked  by  the  hymns  of  a  far  countrye. 
She  'waken'd  on  a  couch  of  the  silk  sae  slim, 
All  striped  wi'  the  bars  of  the  rainbow's  rim ; 
And  lovely  beings  round  were  rife, 
Who  erst  had  travelled  mortal  life ; 
And  aye  they  smiled,  and  'gan  to  speer, 
"What  spirit  has  brought  this  mortal  here?" — 
They  clasped  her  waist  and  her  hands  sae  fair, 
They  kissed  her  cheek,  and  they  kerned  her  hair. 
And  round  came  many  a  blooming  fere. 
Saying,  "  Bonny  Kilmeny,  ye' re  welcome  here ! 

"  Oh,  would  the  fairest  of  mortal  kind 

Aye  keep  the  holy  truths  in  mind 

That  kindred   spirits  their  motions  see, 

Who  watch  their  ways  with  anxious  e'e, 

And  grieve  for  the  guilt  of  humanitye! 

Oh,  sweet  to  Heaven  the  maiden's  prayer, 

And  the  sigh  that  heaves  a  bosom  sae  fair ! 

And  dear  to  Heaven  the  words  of  truth, 

And  the  praise  of  virtue  frae  beauty's  mouth ! 

And  dear  to  the  viewless  forms  of  air, 

The  minds  that  kytlic  as  the  body  fair ! 

O  bonny  Kilmeny !    free  frae  stain. 

If  ever  you  seek  the  world  again — 

That  world  of  sin,  of  sorrow,  and  fear — 

Oh,  tell  of  the  joys  that  arc  Avaiting  here ; 

And  tell  of  the  signs  you  shall   shortly  see  ; 

Of  the  times  that  arc  now,  and  the  times  that  shall   be."' 

They  lifted  Kilmeny,  they  led  her  awa}-. 
And  she  walk'd   in   the  light  of  a  sunless  day: 
The  sky  was  a  dome  of  crystal  bright, 

231 


The  fountain  of  vision,  and  fountain  of  light ; 
The  cmerakl  fields  were  of  dazzling  glow, 
And  the  flowers  of  everlasting  blow. 
Then  deep  in  the  stream  her  body  they  laid, 
That  her  youth  and  beauty  never  might  fade: 
And  they  smiled  on  heaven,  when  they  saw  her  lie 
In  the  stream  of  life  that  wander'd  by. 
And  she  heard  a  song,  she  heard  it  sung. 
She  kend  not  where;    but  sae  sweetly  it  rung, 
It  fell  on  her  ear  like  a  dream  of  the  morn, 

232     . 


HOGG. 

"  Oh !    blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  born  I 
Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see, 
Now  shall  it  ken  what  a  woman  may  be ! 
The  sun  that  shines  on   the  world  sae  bright, 
A  borrow'd  gleid  of  the  fountain  of  light ; 
And  the  moon  that  sleeks  the  sky  sae  dun. 
Like  a  gouden  bow,  or  a  beamless  sun, 
Shall  wear  away,  and  be  seen  nae  mair, 
And  the  angels  shall  miss  them  travelling  the  air. 
But  lang,  lang  after  baith  night  and  day, 
When  the  sun  and  the  world  have  elyed  away ; 
Wlien  the  sinner  has  gane  to  his  waesome  doom, 
Kilmeny  shall  smile  in  eternal  bloom !" 

Then  Kilmeny  begg'd  again  to  see 

The  friends  she  had  left  in  her  own  countrye, 

To  tell  of  the  place  where  she  had  been, 

And  the  gloi'ies  that  lay  in  the  land  unseen ; 

To  warn  the  living  maidens  fair. 

The  loved  of  Heaven,  the  spirits'  care, 

That  all  whose  minds  unmeled  remain 

Shall  bloom  in  beauty  when  time  is  gane. 

With  distant  music,  soft  and  deep, 
They  lull'd  Kilmeny  sound  asleep ; 
And  when  she  awakened,  she  lay  her  lane, 
All  happed  witli  flowers  in  the  green-wood  wenc. 
When  seven  long  years  were  come  and  fled ; 
When  grief  was  calm,  and  ho]ic  was  dead ; 
When  scarce  was  remeraberM   Kilmeny's  name. 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamin'  Kilmeny  came  hame  ! 
And  oh,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  sec, 
But  still  and  steadfast  was  her  e'e ! 
Such  beauty  bard  may  never  declare. 
For  there  was  no  pride  nor  passion  there ; 
And  the  soft  desire  of  maiden's  een 

233 


THE  RAPTURE  OF  KILMENY. 

In  that  mild  face  could  never  be  seen. 
Her  seymar  was  the  lily  flower, 
And  her  cheek  the  moss-rose  in  the  shower. 
And  her  voice  like  the  distant  melodye, 
That  floats  alontr  the  twiliiiht  sea. 


'}tt'-f%  ^;;\!<^, 


%^%^ 


But  she  loved  to  raike  the  lanely  glen, 
And  keeped  afar  frae  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
Her  holy  hymns  unheard  to  sing. 
To  suck  the  flowers,  and  drink  the  spring. 
But  wherever  her  peaceful  form  appear'd, 
The  wild  beasts  of  the  hill  were  cheer'd; 

234 


HOGG. 

The  wolf  play'd  blithely  round  the  field, 

The  lordly  bison  low'd  and  kneel'd ; 

The  dun  deer  woo"d  with  manner  bland, 

And  cower  d  aneath  her  lily  hand. 

And  Avlien  at  even  the  woodlands  rung. 

When  hymns  of  other  woidds  she  sung 

In  ecstasy  of  sweet  devotion. 

Oh,  then  tlie  glen  was  all  in  motion  ! 

The  wild  beasts  of  the  forest  came, 

Broke  from  their  bughts  and  faulds  the  tame, 

And  goved  ai'ound,  charmed  and  amazed ; 

Even  the  dull  cattle  crooned  and  gazed. 

And  murmur'd,  and  look'd  with  anxious  pain 

For  something  the  mystery  to  explain. 

Tlie  buzzard  came  with  the  throstle -cock ; 

The  corby  left  her  houf  in  the  rock ; 

The  blackbird  alang  wi'  the  eagle  flew ; 

The  hind  came  tripping  o'er  the  dew ; 

The  wolf  and  the  kid  their  raikc  began, 

And  the  tod,  and  the  lamb,  and  the  leveret  ran ; 

The  hawk  and  the  hern  attour  them  hung. 

And  the  merl  and  the  mavis  forhooyed  their  young; 

And  all  in  a  peaceful  ring  were  hurfd ; — 

It  was  like  an  eve  in  a  sinless  world ! 

Wlien  a  month  and  a  day  had  come  and  gane, 
Kilmeny  sought  the  green-wood  wene ; 
There  laid  her  down  on   the  leaves  sac  green. 
And  Kilmeny  on  earth  was  never  mair  seen. 
But  O,  the  words  that  fell  from  her  mouth. 
Were  words  of  wonder,  and  words  of  truth  I 
But  all   the   land   were  in   fear  and   di'cad, 
For  they  kcndna  whether  she  was  living  or  dead ; 
It  wasna  her  hame,  and  she  couldua  remain  ; 
She  left  this  Avorld  of  sorrow  and  pain, 
And  rcturn'd   to  the  Land  of  Thought  again. 

23.-> 


SPRAGUE. 

THE  WINGED  WORSHIPPERS. 

ADDRESSED  TO  TWO  SWALLOWS  THAT  FLEW  INTO  THE  CHAUNCEY 
PLACE  CHURCH  DURING  DIVINE  SERVICE. 

Gay,  guiltless  pair, 
What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heaven  ? 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer, 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here. 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep. 

Penance  is  not  for  you. 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  ujiper  deep. 

To  you  'tis  given 
To  wake  sweet  Nature's  untaught  lays ; 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  l^fe  of  praise. 

Then  spread  each  wing, 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  the  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with  hands. 

Or,  if  ye  stay. 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 

Teach  me  the  airy  Avay, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 
236 


SPRAGUE. 

Above  the  crowd, 
On   upward  wings  could  I  but  fiy, 
I'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud. 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the   sky. 

'Twere  Heaven  indeed 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar, 

On  Nature's  charms  to  teed, 
And  Nature's  own  great  God  adore. 


THE  BROTHERS. 

We  are  but  two — the  others  sleep 
Through  Death's  untroubled  night; 

We  are  but  two  — O,  let  us  keep 
The  link  that  binds  us  bright ! 

Heart  leaps  to  heart — the  sacred  flood 
That  warms  us  is  the  same ; 

That  good  old  man — his  honest  blood 
Alike  we  Ibndly  claim. 

We  in  one  mother's  arms  were  locked- 

Long  be  her  love  repaid  ; 
In  the  same  cradle  we  were  rocked. 

Round   the  same  hearth  we  played. 

Our  boyish  sports  were  all  the  sanu^. 
Each  little  joy  and  woe  ; — 

Let  manhood  keep  alive  the  flame. 
Lit   up  so  long  ago. 

We  are  but  tAvo — be  that  the  band 

To  hold  MS  till  wc  die ; 
Slioulder  to  shoulder  let  us  stand. 

Till  side  by  side  we  lie. 
237 


HEMANS. 


THE  CORONATION  OF  INEZ  DE  CASTRO. 


Theke  was  music  on  the  midnight : 
From  a  royal  fane  it  roU'd; 
238 


HEMANS. 

And  a  mighty  bell,  each  pause  between, 

Sternly  and  slowly  toU'd. 
Strange  was  their  mingling  in  the  sky, 

It  hush'd  the  listener's  breath ; 
For  the  music  spoke  of  triumph  high, 

The  lonely  bell,  of  death ! 

There  was  hurrying  through  the  midnight, 

A  sound  of  many  feet ; 
But  they  fell  with  a  muffled  fcarfulness 

Along  the  shadowy  street : 
And  softer,  fainter  grew  their  tread. 

As  it  near'd  the  minster  gate. 
Whence  a  broad  and  solemn  light  was  shed 

From  a  scene  of  royal  state. 

Full  glow'd  the  strong  red  radiance 

In  the  centre  of  the  nave, 
Wliere  the  folds  of  a  purple  canopy 

Swept  down  in  many  a  w-ave ; 
Loading  the  marble  pavement  old 

With  a  weight  of  gorgeous  gloom ; 
For  something  lay  'midst  their  fretted  gold, 

Like  a  shadow  of  the  tomb. 

And  within  that  rich  pavilion. 

High  on  a  glittering  throne, 
A  woman's  form  sat  silently, 

'Midst  the  glare  of  light  alone. 
Ilcr  jeweird  robes  fell  strangely  still — 

The  draj)ery  on  her  breast 
Seem'd  with  no  pulse  beneath  to  thrill, 

So  stonelike  was  its  rest! 

I^ut  a  peal  of  lordly  music 
Shook  e'en  the  dust  below, 

239 


THE  CORONATION  OF  INEZ  DE  CASTRO. 

When  the  burning  gokl  of  the  diadem 

Was  set  on  her  pallid  brow ! 
Then  died  away  that  haughty  sound, 

And  from  the  encircling  band 
Stepp'd  prince  and  chief,  'midst  the  hush  profound, 

With  homage  to  her  hand. 

Why  pass'd  a  faint,  cold  shuddering 

Over  each  martial  frame. 
As  one  by  one,  to  touch  that  hand, 

Noble  and  leader  came  *? 
Was  not  the  settled  aspect  fair? 

Did  not  a  queenly  grace. 
Under  the  parted  ebon  hair. 

Sit  on  the  pale,  still  face? 

Death !    death !    canst  thou  be  lovely 

Unto  the  eye  of  life  ? 
Is  not  each  pulse  of  the  quick  high  breast 

With  thy  cold  mien  at  strife? — 
It  was  a  strange  and  fearful  sight, 

The  crown  upon  that  head, 
The  glorious  robes,  and  the  blaze  of  light. 

All  gather'd  round  the  Dead ! 

And  beside  her  stood  in  silence 

One  with  a  brow  as  pale. 
And  white  lips  rigidly  compress'd. 

Lest  the  strong  heart  should  fail : 
King  Pedro,  with  a  jealous  eye. 

Watching  the  homage  done 
P>y  the  land's  flower  and  chivalry 

To  her,  his  martyr'd  one. 

But  on  the  face  he  looked  not, 
Which  once  his  star  had  been ; 

240 


HEMANS. 

To  every  form  his  glance  was  turn'd, 

Save  of  the  breathless  queen : 
Though  something,  won  from  the  grave's  embrace, 

Of  her  beauty  still  was  there. 
Its  hues  were  all  of  that  shadowy  place, 

It  was  not  for  him  to  bear. 

Alas !    the  crown,  the  sceptre, 

The  treasures  of  the  earth. 
And  the  priceless  love  that  pour'd  those  gifts, 

Alike  of  wasted  worth ! 
The  rites  are  closed : — bear  back  the  dead 

Unto  the  chamber  deep ! 
Lay  do^\^l  again  the  royal  head, 

Dust  with  the  dust  to  sleep! 

There  is  music  on  the  midnight — 

A  requiem  sad  and  slow. 
As  the  mourners  through  the  sounding  aisle 

In  dark  procession  go ; 
And  the  ring  of  state,  and  the  starry  crown, 

And  all  the  rich  array. 
Are  borne  to  the  house  of  silence  down, 

With  her,  that  queen  of  clay ! 

And  tearlessly  and  firmly 

King  Pedro  led  the  train ; 
But  his  face  was  wrapt  in  his  folding  robe, 

When  they  lower'd  the  dust  again. 
'Tis  hush'd  at  last  the  tomb  above — 

Hymns  die,  and  steps  depart: 
Who  call'd  thee  strong  as  Death,  O  Love? 

Mightier  thou  wast  and  art. 


241 


THE  MESSAGE  TO  THE  DEAD. 


THE  MESSAGE  TO  THE  DEAD. 

Thou  'rt  passing  hence,  my  brother! 

O  my  earliest  friend,  farewell! 
Thou  'rt  leaving  me,  without  thy  voice, 

In  a  lonely  home  to  dwell ; 
And  from  the  hills,  and  from  the  hearth, 

And  from  the  household  tree, 
With  thee  departs  the  lingering  mirth, 

The  brightness  goes  with  thee. 

But  thou,  my  friend,  my  brother! 

Thou  'rt  speeding  to  the  shore 
Where  the  dirge-like  tone  of  parting  words 

Shall  smite  the  soul  no  more ! ' 
And  thou  wilt  see  our  holy  dead. 

The  lost  on  earth  and  main : 
Into  the  sheaf  of  kindred  hearts 

Thou  wilt  be  bound  again! 

Tell,  then,  our  friend  of  boyhood 

That  yet  his  name  is  heard 
On  the  blue  mountains,  whence  his  youth 

Pass'd  like  a  swift,  bright  bird. 
The  light  of  his  exulting  brow, 

The  vision  of  his  glee, 
Are  on  me  still — Oh !    still  I  trust 

That  smile  again  to  see. 

And  tell  our  fair  young  sister. 

The  rose  cut  down  in  spring, 
That  yet  my  gushing  soul  is  fill'd 

With  lays  she  lov'd  to  sing. 
242 


HEMANS. 

Her  soft  deep  eyes  look  through  my  dreams, 

Tender  and  sadly  sweet ; — 
Tell  her  my  heart  within  me  burns  ,, 

Once  more  that  gaze  to  meet. 

And  tell  our  white-hair'd  father, 

That  in  the  paths  he  trod. 
The  child  he  lov'd,  the  last  on  earth, 

Yet  walks  and  worships  God. 
Say,  that  his  last  fond  blessing  yet 

Rests  on  my  soul  like  dew. 
And  by  its  hallowing  might  I  trust 

Once  more  his  face  to  view. 

An '  tell  our  gentle  mother. 

That  on  her  grave  I  pour 
The  sorrows  of  my  spirit  forth, 

As  on  her  breast  of  yore. 
Happy  thou  art  that  soon,  how  soon, 

Our  good  and  bright  will  see ! 
0  brother,  brother!    may  I  dwell, 

Erelong,  with  them  and  thee ! 


THE  RETURN. 


"  Hast  thou  come  with  the  heart  of  thy  childhood  back  ? 
The  free,  the  pure,  the  kind?" 
— So  murmur' d  the  trees  in  my  homeward  track. 
As  they  play'd  to  the  mountain-wind. 

"  Hath  thy  soul  been  true  to  its  early  love  ?" 
\Miisper'd  my  native  streams ; 

243 


THE  EETURN. 

"  Hath  the  sph'it,  nursed  amidst  hill  and  grove, 
Still  revered  its  first  high  dreams  f 

"  Hast  thou  borne  in  thy  bosom  the  holy  prayer 
Of  the  child  in  his  parent-halls?" 
Thus  breath'd  a  voice  on  the  thrilling  air, 
From  the  old  ancestral  walls. 

"  Hast  thou  kept  thy  faith  with  the  faithful  dead, 
AVhose  plac6  of  rest  is  nigh? 
With  the  fixther's  blessing  o'er  thee  shed, 
With  the  mother's  trusting  eye?" 

Then  my  tears  gush'd  forth  in  sudden  rain. 

As  I  answer' d — "  O  ye  shades ! 
I  bring  not  my  childhood's  heart  again 

To  the  freedom  of  your  glades. 

"  I  have  turn'd  from  my  first  pure  love  aside, 
O  bright  and  happy  streams ! 
Light  after  light,  in  my  soul  have  died 
The  day-spring's  glorious  dreams. 

"  And  the  holy  prayer  from  my  thoughts  hath  pass'd- 
The  prayer  at  my  mother's  knee ; 
Darken'd  and  troubled  I  come  at  last, 
Home  of  my  boyish  glee ! 

"  But  I  bear  from  my  childhood  a  gift  of  tears. 
To  soften  and  atone  ; 
And  oh !    ye  scenes  of  those  bless'd  years. 
They  shall  make  me  again  your  own." 


244 


MITFORD. 
RIENZI  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

Riemi.     Claudia — nay,  start  not!     Thou  art  sad;    to-day 
I  found  thee  sitting  idly,  'midst  thy  maids, 
A  pretty,  laughing,  restless  band,  who  plied 
Quick  tongue  and  nimble  finger,  mute  and  pale 
As  marble;    those  unseeing  eyes  were  fix'd 
On  vacant  air;    and  that  fair  brow  Avas  bent 
As  sternly,  as  if  the  rude  stranger.  Thought — 
Age-giving,  mirth-destroying,  pitiless  Thought — 
Had  knock'd  at  thy  young  giddy  brain. 

Claudia.  Nay,  father. 

Mock  not  thine  own  poor  Claudia. 

Bien.  Claudia  used 

To  bear  a  merry  heart,  with  that  clear  voice, 
Prattling;    and  that  light  busy  foot  astii- 
In  her  small  housewifery,  the  blithest  bee 
That  ever*  wrought  in  hive. 

Cla.  Oh  !    mine  old  home ! 

Rien.     What  ails  thee,  lady-bird? 

Cla.     Mine  own  dear  home ! 
Father,  I  love  not  this  new  state ;    these  halls, 
AVhere  comfort  dies  in  vastness ;    these  trim  maids, 
Whose  service  wearies  me.     Oh !    mine  old  home ! 
My  quiet,  ]>lcasunt  chamber,  with  the  myrtle 
Woven  round  the  casement;    and  the  cedar  by, 
Shading  the  sun ;    my  garden  overgrown 
With  flowers  and  herbs,  thick-set  as  grass  in  fields ; 

245 


My  pretty  snow-white  doves ;    my  kindest  nurse ; 
And  old  Camillo.     Oh !    mine  own  dear  home ! 

Rien.     Why,  simple  child,  thou  hast  thine  old,  fond  nurse, 
And  good  Camillo,  and  shalt  have  thy  doves, 
Thy  myrtle  flowers,  and  cedars ;    a  whole  province 

246 


MITFORD. 

Laid  in  a  garden,  an'  thou  wilt.     My  Claudia, 

Hast  thou  not  learnt  thy  power"?     Ask  Orient  gems, 

Diamonds  and  sapphires,  in  rich  caskets,  wrought 

By  cunning  goldsmiths ;    sigh  for  rarest  birds 

Of  farthest  Ind,  like  winged  flowers,  to  flit 

Aromid  thy  stately  bower;    and,  at  a  wish. 

The  precious  toys  shall  wait  thee.     Old  CamUlo! 

Thou  shalt  have  nobler  servants,  emperors,  kings, 

Electors,  princes!   not  a  bachelor 

In  Christendom  but  would  right  proudly  kneel 

To  my  fair  daughter. 

Cla.     Oh  !    mine  own  dear  home ! 

Rien.     Wilt  have  a  list  to  choose  from? 

Listen,  sweet! 
If  the  tall  cedar,  and  the  branchy  myrtle, 
And  the  white  doves,  were  tell-tales,  I  woidd  ask  them 
Whose  was  the  shadow  on  the  sunny  wall? 
And  if,  at  eventide,  they  heard  not  oft 
A  tuneful  mandoline,  and  then  a  voice. 
Clear  in  its  manly  depth,  whose  tide  of  song 
O'erwhelm'd  the  quivering  instruments ;    and  then 
A  world  of  whispers,  mix'd  with  low  response. 
Sweet,  short,  and  broken,  as  divided  strains 
Of  nightingales. 

Cla.  Oh,  father  !    father ! 

Men.  Well ! 

Dost  love  him,  Claudia? 

Cla.         Father ! 

Rkn.  Dost  thou  love 

Young  Angelo?     Yes?     Saidst  thou  yes?     That  heart, 
That  throbbing  heart  of  thine,  keeps  such  a  coil, 
I  cannot  hear  thy  words.     He  is  rcturn'd 
To  Rome ;    he  left  thee  on  mine  errand,  dear  one. 
And  now — Is  there  no  casement  myrtle-wreath'd. 
No  cedar  in  our  courts,  to  shade  to-night 
The  lover's  song? 

247 


SONG. 

Cla.     Oh,  father!    father! 

Mien.     Now, 
Back  to  thy  maidens,  with  a  lighten' d  heart, 
Mine  own  beloved  child.     Thou  shalt  be  first 
In  Rome,  as  thou  art  fairest ;    never  princess 
Brought  to  the  proud  Colonna  such  a  dower 
As  thou.     Young  Angelo  hath  chosen  his  mate 
From  out  an  eagle's  nest. 

Cla.     Alas !    alas  ! 
I  tremble  at  the  height.     Whene'er  I  think 
Of  the  hot  barons,  of  the  fickle  people, 
And  the  inconstancy  of  power,  I  tremble 
For  thee,  dear  father. 

Rien.     Tremble  !    let  them  tremble  : 
I  am  their  master,  Claudia!    whom  they  scorn'd. 
Endured,  protected. — Sweet,  go  dream  of  love ! 
I  am  their  master,  Claudia ! 


SONG. 

Hail  to  the  gentle  bride !    the  dove 
High  nested  in  the  column's  crest! 

Oh,  welcome  as  the  bird  of  love, 
Wlio  bore  the  olive-sign  of  i-est! 

Hail  to  the  gentle  bride !    the  flower 

Whose  garlands  round  the  column  twine  ! 

Oh,  fairer  than  the  citron  bower. 

More  fragrant  than  the  blossom'd  vine ! 

Hail  to  the  gentle  bride !    the  star 

Whose  radiance  o'er  the  column  beams 

Oh,  soft  as  moonlight  seen  afar — 
A  silver  shine  on  trembling  streams ! 

248 


^-^'Jk-:^^-^  - 


SIGOURNEY. 

THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

When  was  the  red  man's  summer? 

AMien  the  rose 
Hung  its  first  banner  out?     Wlien  tlie  gray  rock, 
Or  the  brown  heatli,  the  radiant  kalmia  clothed? 
Or  when  the  loiterer  by  the  reedy  brooks 
Started  to  sec  the  proud  lobelia  glow 
Like  living  flame?     "VYlien  through  the  forest  gleam'd 
The  rhododendron  ?    or  the  fragrant  breath 
Of  the  magnolia  swept  deliciously 
O'er  the  half  laden  nerve? 


No.     "\Mien  the  groves 
In  fleeting  colors  wrote  their  own  decay, 
And  leaves  fell  eddying  on  the  sharpeu'd  blast 
That  sang  their  dirge ;    when  o'er  their  rustling  bed 

L'tO 


THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

The  red  deer  sprang,  or  fled  the  shrill-voiced  quail, 

Heavy  of  wing  and  fearful ;    when,  with  heart 

Foreboding  or  depress'd,  the  white  man  mark'd 

The  signs  of  coming  winter :    then  began 

The  Indian's  joyous  season.     Then  the  haze, 

Soft  and  illusive  as  a  fairy  dream, 

Lapp'd  all  the  landscape  in  its  silvery  fold. 

The  quiet  rivers  that  were  wont  to  hide 

'Neath  shelving  banks,  beheld  their  course  betray'd 

By  the  white  mist  that  o'er  their  foreheads  crept, 

While  wrapp'd  in  morning  dreams,  the  sea  and  sky 

Slept  'neath  one  curtain,  as  if  both  were  merged 

In  the  same  element.     Slowly  the  sun, 

And  all  reluctantly,  the  spell  dissolved 

And  then  it  took  upon  its  parting  wing 

A  rainbow  glory. 

Gorgeous  was  the  time, 
Yet  brief  as  gorgeous.     Beautiful  to  thee, 
Our  brother  hunter,  but  to  us  replete 
With  musing  thoughts  in  melancholy  train. 
Our  joys,  alas!    too  oft  were  woe  to  thee. 
Yet  ah,*  poor  Indian !    whom  we  fain  would  drive 
Both  from  our  hearts,  and  from  thy  father's  lands. 
The  perfect  year  doth  bear  thee  on  its  crown, 
And  when  we  would  forget,  repeat  thy  name. 


250 


SIGOURNEY. 


THE  HOLY  DEAD. 


"Wherefore  I  praised  the  dead  who  are  already  dead,  more  than  the  living 
who  are  yet  alive." — Solomon. 


They  dread  no  storm  that  lower?, 

No  perish' d  joys  bewail ; 
They  pluck  no  thorn-clad  flowers, 

Nor  drink  of  streams  that  fail : 
There  is  no  tear-drop  in  their  eye, 

No  change  upon  their  brow; 
Their  placid  bosom  heaves  no  sigh, 

Though  all  earth's  idols  bow. 

Vfho  are  so  gi'eatly  blest? 

From  whom  hath  sorrow  fled? 
Who  share  such  deep,  unbroken  rest 

■Wliere  all  things  toil?     The  dead! 
The  holy  dead.     Why  weep  ye  so 

Above  yon  sable  bier? 
Thrice  blessed !    they  have  done  with  woe, 

Tlic  livin":  claim  the  tear. 


D 


Go  to  their  sleeping  bowers, 

Deck  their  Ioav  couch  of  clay 
With  earliest  spring's  soft  breathing  flowers ; 

And  when  they  fade  away. 
Think  of  the  amaranthine  wreath, 

Tlic  garlands  never  dim. 
And  tell  me  why  thou  fly'st  from  death, 

Or  hid'st  thy  friends  from  him. 


TALK  WITH  THE  SEA. 

We  dream,  but  they  awake ; 

Dread  visions  mar  om-  rest ; 
Through  thorns  and  snares  our  way  we  take, 

And  yet  we  moui'n  the  blest ! 
For  spirits  round  the  Eternal  Throne 

How  vain  the  tears  we  shed ! 
They  are  the  living,  they  alone. 

Whom  thus  we  call  the  dead. 


TALK  WITH  THE  SEA. 


I  SAID  with  a  moan,  as  I  roamed  alone, 

By  the  side  of  the  solemn  sea, — 
"  Oh  cast  at  my  feet,  which  thy  bUlows  meet. 

Some  token  to  comfort  me. 
'Mid  thy  surges  cold,  a  ring  of  gold 

I  have  lost,  with  an  amethyst  bright, 
Thou  hast  locked  it  so  long,  in  thy  casket  strong, 

That  the  rust  must  have  quenched  its  light. 

"  Send  a  gift,  I  pray,  on  thy  sheeted  spray. 

To  solace  my  drooping  mind, 
For  Tm  sad  and  grieve,  and  erelong  must  leave 

This  rolling  globe  behind." 
Then  the  Sea  answered,  "  Spoils  are  mine. 

From  many  an  argosy, 
And  pearl-drops  sleep  in  my  bosom  deep. 

But  naught  have  I  there  for  thee!" 


SIGOURNEY. 

"When  I  mused  before,  on  this  rock-bound  shore, 

The  beautiful  walked  with  me, 
She  hath  gone  to  her  rest  in  the  churchyard's  breast 

Since  I  saw  thee  last,  thou  Sea ! 
Kestore !    restore !    the  smUe  sJbe  wore, 

When  her  cheek  to  mine  was  pressed, 
Give  back  the  voice  of  the  fervent  soul 

That  could  lighten  the  darkest  breast !" 

But  the  haughty  Sea,  in  its  majesty 

Swept  onward  as  before. 
Though  a  surge  in  wrath  from  its  rocky  path. 

Shrieked  out  to  the  sounding  shore — 
"Thou  hast  asked  of  our  king  a  harder  thing 

Than  mortal  e'er  claimed  before. 
For  never  the  Avealth  of  a  loving  heart. 

Could  Ocean  or  Earth  restore." 


253 


HEBER. 


THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  RED  SEA. 


With  heat  o'erlabour'd  and  the  length  of  way, 
On  Ethan's  beach  the  bands  of  Israel  lay. 
'Twas  silence  all,  the  sparklmg  sands  along ; 
Save  where  the  locust  triW^  her  feeble  song, 
Or  blended  soft  in  drowsy  cadence  fell 
The  wave's  low  whisper,  or  the  camel's  bell. — 
'Twas  silence  all! — the  flocks  for  shelter  fly 
Where,  waving  light,  the  acacia  shadows  lie; 
Or  where,  from  far,  the  flattering  vapours  make 
The  noontide  semblance  of  a  misty  lake : 
While  the  mute  swain,  in  careless  safety  spread, 
With  arms  enfolded,  and  dejected  head, 
Dreams  o'er  his  wondrous  call,  his  lineage  high, 
And,  late  reveal'd,  his  children's  destiny. — 
For,  not  in  vain,  in  thraldom's  darkest  hour. 
Had  sped  from  Amram's  sons  the  word  of  power ; 
Nor  fail'd  the  dreadful  wand,  whose  godlike  sway 
Could  lure  the  locust  from  her  airy  way; 
With  reptile  war  assail  their  proud  abodes. 
And  mar  the  giant  pomp  of  Egypt's  gods. 
Oh,  helpless  gods!    who  nought  avail'd  to  shield 
From  fiery  rain  your  Zoan's  favour'd  field! — 

254 


HEBER. 

Oh,  helpless  gods !    who  saw  the  curdled  blood 
Taint  the  pure  lotus  of  your  ancient  flood, 
And  four-fold  night  the  wondering  earth  enchain, 
WTiile  Memnon's  orient  harp  was  heard  in  vain ! —    " 
Such  musings  held  the  tribes,  till  now  the  west 
With  milder  influence  on  their  temples  prest ; 
And  that  portentous  cloud,  which  all  the  day 
Hung  its  dark  cui'tain  o'er  their  weary  way, 
(A  cloud  by  day,  a  friendly  flame  by  night,) 
Roll'd  back  its  misty  veil,  and  kindled  into  light! — 
Soft  fell  the  eve : — But,  ere  the  day  was  done, 
Tall  waving  banners  streak'd  the  level  sun ; 
And  wide  and  dark  along  the  horizon  red. 
In  sandy  surge  the  rising  desert  spread. — 
"  Mark,  Israel,  mark  !" — On  that  strange  sight  intent, 
In  breathless  terror,  every  eye  was  bent ; 
And  busy  faction's  fast-increasing  hum. 
And  female  voices  shriek,  "They  come!  they  come!" 
They  come,  they  come,  in  scintillating  show 
O'er  the  dark  mass  the  brazen  lances  glow; 
And  sandy  clouds  in  countless  shapes  combine. 
As  deepens  or  extends  the  long  tumultuous  line ; — 
And  fancy's  keener  glance  e'en  now  may  trace 
The  threatening  aspects  of  each  mingled  race  : 
For  many  a  coal-black  tribe  and  cany  spear. 
The  hireling  guards  of  Misraim's  throne,  were  there. 
From  distant  Gush  they  troop'd,  a  warrior  train, 
Siwah's  green  isle  and  Sennaar's  marly  plain  : 
On  either  wing  their  fiery  coursers  check 
The  parch'd  and  sinewy  sons  of  Amalck  : 
Wliile  close  behind,  inured  to  feast  on  blood, 
Deck'd  in  Behemoth's  spoils,  the  tall  Shangalla  strode. 
'Mid  blazing  helms  and  bucklers  rough  with  gold, 
Saw  ye  how  swift  the  scythed  chariots  roll'd? 
Lo,  these  are  they  whom,  lords  of  Afric's  fates. 
Old  Thebes  hath  pour'd  through  all  her  hundred  gates, 

255 


THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  RED  SEA. 

Mother  of  armies ! — How  the  emeralds  glow'd, 

Wliere,  flushed  with  power  and  vengeance,  Pharaoh  rode ! 

And  stoled  in  white,  those  brazen  wheels  before, 

Osiris'  ark  his  swarthy  wizards  bore ; 

And,  still  responsive  to  the  trumpet's  cry, 

The  priestly  sistrum  murmur'd — Victory  ! — 

Why  swell  these  shouts  that  rend  the  desert's  gloom  ? 

Whom  come  ye  forth  to  combat  ? — warriors,  whom  ? 

These  flocks  and  herds — this  faint  and  weary  train — 

Red  from  the  scourge  and  recent  from  the  chain  ? — 

God  of  the  poor,  the  poor  and  friendless  save ! 

Giver  and  Lord  of  freedom,  help  the  slave ! — 

North,  south,  and  west,  the  sandy  whirlwinds  fly, 

The  circling  horns  of  Egypt's  chivalry. 

On  earth's  last  margin  throng  the  weeping  train : 

Their  cloudy  guide  moves  on  : — "  And  must  we  swim  the  main  ?" 

'Mid  the  light  spray  their  snorting  camels  stood. 

Nor  bath'd  a  fetlock  in  the  nauseous  flood — 

He  comes — their  leader  comes! — the  man  of  God 

O'er  the  wide  waters  lifts  his  mighty  rod. 

And  onward  treads. — The  circling  waves  retreat, 

In  hoarse  deep  murmurs,  from  his  holy  feet ; 

And  the  chased  surges,  inly  roaring,  show 

The  hard  wet  sand,  and  coral  hills  below. 

With  limbs  that  falter,  and  with  hearts  that  swell, 
Down,  down  they  pass — a  steep  and  slippery  dell — 
Around  them  rise,  in  pristine  chaos  hurl'd, 
The  ancient  rocks,  the  secrets  of  the  world ; 
And  flowers  that  blush  beneath  the  ocean  green, 
And  caves,  the  sea-calves'  low-roof'd  haunt,  are  seen. 
Down,  safely  down  the  narrow  pass  they  tread ; 
The  beetling  waters  storm  above  their  head  : 
While  far  behind  retires  the  sinking  day, 
And  fades  on  Edom's  hills  its  latest  ray. 

Yet  not  from  Israel  fled  the  friendly  light, 
Or  dark  to  them,  or  cheerless  came  the  night. 

256 


IIEBER. 

Still  in  their  van,  along  that  dreadful  road, 

Blazed  broad  and  fierce  the  brandish' d  torch  of  God. 

Its  meteor  glare  a  ten-fold  lustre  gave, 

On  the  long  mirror  of  the  rosy  wave : 

While  its  blest  beams  a  sun-like  heat  supply, 

Warm  every  cheek,  and  dance  in  every  eye — 

To  them  alone^for  Misraim's  wizard  train 

Invoke  for  light  their  monster-gods  in  vain : 

Clouds  heap'd  on  clouds  their  struggling  sight  confine, 

And  ten-fold  darkness  broods  above  their  line. 

Yet  on  they  fare,  by  reckless  vengeance  led, 

And  range  unconscious  through  the  ocean's  bed: 

Till  midway  now — that  strange  and  fiery  form 

Show'd  his  dread  visage  lightening  through  the  storm  ; 

With  withering  splendour  blasted  all  their  might, 

And  break  their  chariot-wheels,  and  marr'd  their  coursers'  flight. 

"  Fly,  Misraim,  fly !" — The  ravenous  floods  they  see, 

And,  fiercer  than  the  floods,  the  Deity. 

"  Fly,  Misraim,  fly  !" — From  Edom's  coral  strand 

Again  the  prophet  stretch'd  his  dreadful  wand : — 

With  one  wild  crash  the  thundering  waters  sweep, 

And  all  is  waves — a  dark  and  lonely  deep  — 

Yet  o'er  those  lonely  waves  such  murmurs  past, 

As  mortal  wailing  swell'd  the  nightly  blast ; 

And  strange  and  sad  the  whispering  breezes  bore 

The  groans  of  Egypt  to  Arabia's  shore. 

Oil !    welcome  came  the  morn,  where  Israel  stood 
In  trustless  wonder  by  th'  avenging  flood ! 
Oh !    welcome  came  the  cheerful  morn,  to  show 
The  drifted  Avreck  of  Zoan's  pride  below ; 
The  mangled  limbs  of  men — the  broken  car — 
A  few  sad  relics  of  a  nation's  Avar : 
Alas,  how  few! — Then,  soft  as  Elini's  well. 
The  precious  tears  of  new-born  freedom  fell. 
And  he,  whose  harden'd  heart  alike  had  borne 
The  house  of  bondage  and  th'  oppressor's  scorn, 

257  R 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  MRS.  HEBER. 

The  stubborn  slave,  by  hope's  new  beams  subdued, 

In  faltering  accents  sobb'd  his  gratitude — 

Till,  kindling  into  warmer  zeal,  around 

The  virgin  timbrel  waked  its  silver  sound : 

And  in  tierce  joy,  no  more  by  doubt  supprest, 

The  struggling  spirit  throbb'd  in  Miriam's  breast. 

She,  with  bare  arms,  and  fixing  on  the  sky 

The  dark  transparence  of  her  lucid  eye, 

Pour'd  on  the  winds  of  heaven  her  wild  sweet  harmony. 

"Where  now,"  she  sang,  "the  tall  Egyptian  spear? 
On's  sun-like  shield,  and  Zoan's  chariot,  where? 
Above  their  ranks  the  whelming  waters  spread. 
Shout,  Israel,  for  the  Lord  hath  triumphed !" — 
And  every  pause  between  as  Miriam  sang, 
From  tribe  to  tribe  the  martial  thunder  rang, 
And  loud  and  far  their  stormy  chorus  spread, — 
"Shout,  Israel,  for  the  Lord  hath  triumphed!" 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  MRS.  HEBER. 


If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love, 
How  fast  would  evening  fail, 

In  green  liengola's  palmy  grove, 
Listening  the  nightingale ! 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side, 

My  babies  at  my  knee. 
How  gayly  would  our  pinnace  glide 

O'er  Gunga's  mimic  sea! 
258  . 


HEBER. 

I  miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray, 

Wlien,  on  our  deck  reclined. 
In  careless  ease  my  limbs  I  lay 

And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 

I  miss  thee  when  by  Gunga's  stream 

My  twilight  steps  I  guide, 
But  most  beneath  the  lamp's  pale  beam 

I  miss  thee  from  my  side. 

I  spread  my  books,  my  pencil  try 

The  lingering  noon  to  cheer. 
But  miss  thy  kind  approving  eye, 

Thy  meek  attentive  ear. 

But  when  of  morn  and  eve  the  star 

Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 
I  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Tlien  on !    then  on  !    where  duty  leads, 

My  course  be  onward  still, 
O'er  broad  Hindostan's  sultry  mead. 

O'er  bleak  Almorah's  hill. 

That  course  nor  Delhi's  kingly  gates, 
Nor  wild  Malwah  detain  ;  * 

For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits 
By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they  say, 

Across  the  dark  blue  sea. 
But  ne'er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 

As  then  shall  meet  in  thee  1 
259 


LINES. 


LINES 


WRITTEN  TO  A  MARCH  COMPOSED  IN  IMITATION  OF  A  MILITARY  BAND. 

I  SEE  them  on  their  winding  way, 
Above  their  ranks  the  moon-beams  play, 
And  nearer  yet,  and  yet  more  near, 
The  martial  chorus  strikes  the  ear. 

They're  lost  and  gone, — the  moon  is  past, 
The  wood's  dark  shade  is  o'er  them  cast, 
And  fainter,  fainter,  fainter  still. 
The  dim  march  warbles  up  the  hill. 

Again,  again, — the  pealing  drum, 

The  clashing  horn — they  come  !    they  come  ! 

And  lofty  deeds  and  daring  high. 

Blend  with  their  notes  of  victory. 

Forth,  forth,  and  meet  them  on  their  way, 
The  trampling  hoof  brooks  no  delay ; 
The   thrilling  fife,  the  pealing  drum. 
How  late — but  oh,  how  loved  they  come ! 


260 


SOUTHEY. 


THE  VISIT  OF  MADOC— A  SCENE  AMONG  THE  WELSH  HILLS. 


Now  hath  Prince  Madoe  left  the  holy  Isle, 
And  homeward  to  Aberfraw,  through   the  wild- 
Of  Arvon,  bent  his  course.     A  little  way 

2G1 


THE  VISIT  OF  MADOC. 

He  turned  aside,  by  natural  impulses 

Moved,  to  behold  Cadwallon's  lonely  hut. 

That  lonely  dwelling  stood  among  the  hills 

By  a  grey  mountain-stream ;   just  elevate 

Above  the  winter  torrents  did  it  stand, 

Upon  a  craggy  bank ;    an  oi'chard  slope 

Arose  behind,  and  joyous  was  the  scene 

In  early  summer,  when  those  antic  trees 

Shone  with  their  blushing  blossoms,  and  the  flax 

Twinkled  beneath  the  breeze  its  liveliest  green. 

But  save  the  flax-field  and  that  orchard  slope, 

All  else  was  desolate,  and  now  it  wore 

One  sober  hue ;    the  narrow  vale,  which  wound 

Among  the  hills,  was  gi'ey  with  rocks,  that  peer'd 

Above  its  shallow  soil ;    the  mountain  side 

Was  loose  with  stones  bestrewn,  which  oftentimes 

Clatter'd  adown  the  steep,  beneath  the  foot 

Of  straggling  goat  dislodged ;    or  lower'd  with  crags, 

One  day,  when  winter's  work  hath  loosen'd  them, 

To  thunder  down.     All  things  assorted  well 

With  that  grey  mountain  hue ;    the  low  stone  lines, 

Which  scarcely  seem'd  to  be  the  work  of  man. 

The  dwelling  rudely  rear'd  with  stones  unhewn, 

The  stubble  flax,  the  crooked  apple-trees, 

Grey  with  their  fleecy  moss  and  mistletoe, 

The  white-bark'd  birch,  now  leafless,  and  the  ash 

Whose  knotted  roots  were  like  the  drifted  rock 

Through  which  they  forced  their  way.     Adown  the  vale, 

Broken  by  stones,  and  o'er  a  stony  bed, 

Roll'd  the  loud  mountain-stream — 

When  Madoc  came, 
A  little  child  was  sporting  by  the  brook. 
Floating  the  fallen  leaves,  that  he  might  see  them 
Whirl  in  the  eddy  now,  and  now  be  driven 
Down  the  descent,  now  on  the  smoother  sti-eam 

262 


SOUTHEY. 

Sail  onward  far  away.     But  when  he  heard 

The  horse's  tramp,  he  raised  his  head  and  watch'd 

The  Pi'ince,  who  now  dismounted  and  drew  ni":h. 

Tlie  little  boy  still  fix'd  his  eyes  on  him, 

His  bright  blue  eyes ;    the  wind  just  moved  the  curls 

That  cluster'd  round  his  brow ;    and  so  he  stood, 

His  rosy  cheeks  still  lifted  up  to  gaze 

In  innocent  wonder.     Madoc  took  his  hand, 

And  now  had  ask'd  his  name,  and  if  he  dwelt 

There  in  the  hut ;    when  from  that  cottage-door 

A  woman  came,  who,  seeing  Madoc,  stopt 

With  such  a  fear — for  she  had  cause  to  fear — 

As  when  a  bird,  returning  to  her  nest. 

Turns  to  a  tree  beside,  if  she  behold 

Some  prying  boy  too  near  the  dear  retreat. 

Howbeit,  advancing,  soon  she  now  approach'd 

The  approaching  Prince,  and  timidly  inquired 

If  on  his  wayfare  he  had  lost  the  track. 

That  thither  he  had  stray' d.      "Not  so,"  replied 

The  gentle  Prince ;    "  but  having  known  this  place, 

And  its  old  inhabitants,  I  came  once  more 

To  see  the  lonely  hut  among  the  hills." 


THE  WORLD  OF  WOE. 

Whoe'er  hath  loved  with  venturous  step  to  tread 
The  chambers  dread 
Of  some  deep  cave,  and  seen  his  taper's  beam 
Lost  in  the  arch  of  darkness  overhead. 

And  mark'd  its  gleam 
Playing  afar  upon   the  sunless  stream. 

Where  from  their  secret  bed. 
And  course  unknown,  and  inaccessible, 
The  silent  waters  well ; 
2G3 


THE  WORLD  OF  WOE. 

Whoe'er  hath  trod  such  caves  of  endless  night, 
He  knows,  when  measuring  back  the  gloomy  way, 
With  what  delight  refresh'd  his  eye 
Perceives  the  shadow  of  the  light  of  day, 
Through  the  far  portal  slanting,  where  it  falls 
Dimly  reflected  on  the  watery  walls : 
How  heavenly  seems  the  sky ; 
And  how,  with  quicken'd  feet,  he  hastens  up, 

Eager  again  to  greet 
The  living  world  and  blessed  sunshine  there. 
And  drink,  as  from  a  cup 
Of  joy,  with  thirsty  lips,  the  open  air. 

Far  other  light  than  that  of  day  there  shone 

Upon  the  travellers,  entering  Padalon. 
They  too  in  darkness  enter'd  on  their  way ; 
But  far  before  the  car, 
A  glow,  as  of  a  fiery  furnace  light, 
Fill'd  all  before  them.     'Twas  a  light  which  made 
Darkness  itself  appear 
A  thing  of  comfort,  and  the  sight,  dismay'd, 
Shrunk  inward  from  the  molten  atmosphere. 
Their  way  was  through  the  adamantine  rock 
Which  girt  the  World  of  Woe ;    on  either  side 
Its  massive  walls  arose,  and  overhead 
Arch'd  the  long  passage ;    onward  as  they  ride. 
With  stronger  glare  the  light  around  them  spread ; 

And  lo !    the  regions  dread, 
The  World  of  Woe  before  them,  opening  wide. 

There  rolls  the  fiery  flood, 
Girding  the  realms  of  Padalon  around. 
A  sea  of  flame  it  seem'd  to  be, 
Sea  without  bound ; 
For  neither  mortal  nor  immortal  sight 
Could  pierce  across  through  that  in  tensest  light. 

204 


THALABA  IN  THE  TENT  OF  MOATII. 


It  wtii^   the  wisdom  and  the  will  of  Heaven, 
That   in  a  lonely  tent  liad  cast 
The  lot  of  Thalaba  ; 
There  might  his  soul  develop  best 
Its  strengtheiiing  energies  ; 
There  might  he  from  the  world 

265 


THALABA  IN  THE  TENT  OF  MOATH. 

Keep  his  heart  pure  and  uncontaminate, 
Till  at  the  written  hour  he  should  be  found 
Fit  servant  of  the  Lord,  without  a  spot. 

Years  of  his  youth,  how  rapidly  ye  fled 

In  that  beloved  solitude  ! 

Is  the  morn  fair,  and  doth  the  freshening  breeze 

Flow  with  cool  current  o'er  his  cheek  ? 

Lo!    underneath  the  broad-leaved  sycamore. 

With  lids  half-closed,  he  lies. 

Dreaming  of  days  to  come. 

His  dog  beside  him,  in  mute  blandishment, 

Now  licks  his  listless  hand; 

Now  lifts  an  anxious  and  expectant  eye, 

Courtmg  the  Avonted  caress. 


'o 


Or  comes  the  Father  of  the  Kains 
From  his  caves  in  the  uttermost  West, 
Comes  he  in  darkness  and  storms'? 
When  the  blast  is  loud; 
When  the  waters  fill 
The  traveller's  tread  in  the  sands; 
When  the  pouring  shower 
Streams  adown  the  roof; 

When  the  door-curtain  hangs  in  heavier  folds; 
Wlien  the  out-strain'd  tent  flags  loosely: 
Within  there  is  the  embers'  cheerful  glow. 
The  sound  of  the  familiar  voice. 
The  song  that  lightens  toil, — 
Domestic  Peace  and  Comfort  are  within 
Under  the  common  shelter,  on  dry  [^and, 
The  quiet  camels  ruminate  their  food ; 
The  lengthening  cord  from  Moath  falls, 
As  patiently  the  old  man 

Entwines  the  strong  palm-fibres;    by  the  hearth 
The  damsel  shakes  the  coifee-grains, 

2GG 


SOUTHEY. 

That  with  warm  fragrance  fill  the  tent ; 
And  while,  with  dexterous  fingers,  Thalaba 
Shapes  the  green  basket,  haply  at  his  feet 
Her  favourite  kidling  gnaws  the  twig, 
Forgiven  plunderer,  for  Oneiza's  sake. 

Or  when  the  winter  torrent   rolls 

Down  the  deep-channell'd  rain-course,  foamingly. 

Dark  with  its  mountain  spoils, 

With  bare  feet  pressing  the  Avet  sand, 

There  wanders  Thalaba, 

The  rushing  flow,  the  flowing  roar, 

FUling  his  yielded  faculties, 

A  vague,  a  dizzy,  a  tumultuous  joy. 

Or  lingers  it  a  vernal  brook 

Gleaming  o'er  yellow  sands? 

Beneath  the  lofty  bank  reclined. 

With  idle  eye  he  views  its  little  waves. 

Quietly  listening  to  the  quiet  flovv- ; 

While  in  the  breathings  of  the  stirring  gale, 

The  tall  canes  bend  above. 

Floating  like  streamers  in  the  wuid 

Their  lank  uplifted  leaves. 

Nor  rich,  nor  poor,  was  Moath ;    God  hath  given 
Enough,  and  blest  him   with  a  mind  content. 
No  hoarded  gold  disquieted  his  dreams ; 
But  ever  round  his  station  he  beheld 
Camels  that  knew  his  voice. 
And  home-birds,  grouping  at  Oneiza's  call. 
And  goats  that,  morn  and  eve. 
Came  with  full   udders  to  the  damsel's  hand. 
Dear  cliild !    the  tent  beneath  whose  shade  they  dwelt. 
Tt  was  her  work ;    and  she  had  twined 
His  girdle's  many  hues ; 
And  ht'  liad  seen  his  robe 

267 


THALABA  IN  THE  TENT  OF  MOATH. 

Grow  in  Oneiza's  loom. 
How  often,  with  a  memory-mingled  joy 
Which  made  her  mother  live  before  his  sight, 
He  watch'd  her  nimble  fingers  thread  the  woof  I 
Or  at  the  hand-mill,  when  she  knelt  and  toil'd, 
Toss'd  the  thin  cake  on  spreading  palm, 
Or  fix'd  it  on  the  glowing  oven's  side 
With  bare  wet  arm,  and  safe  dexterity. 

'Tis  the  cool  evening  hour : 

The  tamarind  from  the  dew 

Sheathes  its  young  fruit,  yet  green. 

Before  their  tent  the  mat  is  spread ; 

The  old  man's  solemn  voice 

Intones  the  holy  book. 

What  if  beneath  no  lamp-illumined  dome, 

Its  marble  walls  bedeck'd  with  flourish'd  truth, 

Azure  and  gold  adornment?     Sinks  the  word 

With  deeper  influence  from  the  Imam's  voice 

Where  in  the  day  of  congregation  crowds 

Perform  the  duty-task? 

Their  Father   is  their  Priest, 

The  Stars  of  Heaven  their  point  of  prayer, 

And  the  blue  Firmament 

The  glorious  Temple,  where  they  feel 

The  present  Deity. 

Yet  through  the  purple  glow  of  eve 
Shines  dimly  the  white  moon. 
The  slacken'd  bow,  the  quiver,  the  long  lance, 
Rest  on  the  pillar  of  the  tent. 
Knitting   light  palm-leaves  for  her  brother's  brow, 
The  dark-eyed  damsel  sits ; 
The  old  man  tranquilly 
Up  his  curl'd  pipe  inhales 
The  tranquillising  herb. 
So  listen  they  the  reed  of  Thalaba, 

268 


SOUTHEY. 

While  his  skill'd  fingers  modulate 

The  low,  sweet,  soothing,  melancholy  tones. 

Or  if  he  strung  the  pearls  of  poesy, 

Singing  with  agitated  face 

And*  eloquent  arms,  and  sobs  that  reach  the  heart, 

A  tale  of  love  and  woe ; 

Then,  if  the  brightening  moon  that  lit  his  face, 

In  darkness  favour'd  hers. 

Oh !    even  AA'ith  such  a  look,  as  fables  say. 

The  Mother  Ostrich  fixes  on  her  egg, 

Till  that  intense  affection 

Kindle  its  light  of  life, 

Even  in  such  deep  and  breathless  tenderness 

Oneiza's  soul  is  centred  on  the  youth. 

So  motionless,  with  such  an  ardent  gaze, 

Save  when  from  her  full  eyes 

She  wipes  away  the  swelling  tears 

That  dim  his  image  there. 


o 


She  caird  him  Brother;    Avas  it  sister-love 
For  which  the  silver  rings, 

Round  her  smooth  ankles  and  her  taAvny  arms. 
Shone  daily  brighten'd  ?    for  a  brother's  eye 
Were  her  long  fingers  tinged. 
As  when  she  trimm'd  the  lamp. 
And  through  the  veins  and  delicate  skin 
The  light  shone  rosy?    thai   the  darken'd  lids 
Gave  yet  a  softer  lustre  to  her  eye? 
That  with  such  pride  she  trick'd 
Her  glossy  tresses,  and  on  holy-day 
Wreath'd  the  red  flower-crown  round 
Their  waves  of  glossy  jet? 
How  hap])ily  the  days 
Of  Thalaba  went  by ! 

Years  of  his  youth,  how  rapidly  ye  fled ! 

2G9 


SUNLIGHT  ON  THE  OCEAN. 


SUNLIGHT  ON  THE  OCEAN. 

To  Bardsey  was  the  Lord  of  Ocean  bound ; 

Bardsey,  the  holy  Islet,  ha  whose  soil 

Did  many  a  Chief  and  many  a  Saint  repose, 

His  great  progenitors.     He  mounts  the  skiiF; 

The  canvas  swells  before  the  breeze,  the  sea 

Sings  round  her  sparkling  keel,  and  soon  the  Lord 

Of  Ocean  treads  the  venerable  shore. 

There  was  not,  on  that  day,  a  speck  to  stain 

The  azure  heaven  ;    the  blessed  Sun  alone 

In  unapproachable  divinity 

Career'd,  rejoicing  in  his  fields  of  light. 

How  beautiful  beneath  the  bright  blue  sky 

The  billows  heave !    one  glowing  green  expanse, 

Save  where  along  the  bending  line  of  shore 

Such  hue  is  thrown,  as  when  the  peacock's  neck 

Assumes  its  proudest  tint  of  amethyst, 

Embathed  in  emerald  glory.     All  the  flocks 

Of  Ocean  are  abroad ;    like  floating  foam 

The  sea-gulls  rise  and  fall  upon  the  waves ; 

With  long  protruded  neck  the  cormorants 

Wing  their  far  flight  aloft,  and  round  and  round 

The  plovers  wheel,  and  give  their  note  of  joy. 

It  was  a  day  that  sent  into  the  heart 

A  summer  feeling ;    even  the  insect  swarms 

From  their  dark  nooks  and  coverts  issued  forth, 

To  sport  through  one  day  of  existence  more ; 

The  solitary  primrose  on  the  bank 

Seem'd  now  as  though  it  had  no  cause  to  mourn 

Its  bleak  autumnal  birth ;    the  rocks  and  shores, 

The  forest  and  the  everlasting  hills. 

Smiled  in  that  joyful  sunshine,   .   .   .   they  partook 

The  universal  blessing. 

270 


CAROLINE  BOWLES  (MRS.  SOUTHEY). 


SUNDAY  EVENING. 


I  SAT  last  Sunday  evening, 
From  sunset  even  till  night, 

At  the  open  casement  watching 
The  day's  departing  light. 

Such  hours  to  me  are  holy. 
Holier  than  tongue  can  tell, 

They  fall  on  my  heart  like  dew 
On  the  parched  heather-bell. 

The  Sun  had  shone  bright  all  day — 
His  setting  was  brighter  still, 

But  there  sprang  up  a  lovely  air 
As  he  dro})t  down  the  western  hill. 

The  fields  and  lanes  were  swarmin" 
With  holy-day  folks  in  their  best. 

Released  from  their  six  days'  cares 
By  the  seventh  day's  peace  and  rest. 

I  heard  the  lidit-heartcd  laush. 
The  trampling  of  many  feet — 

I  saw  them  go  merrily  by. 

And  to  me  the  sight  was  sweet. 
271 


SUNDAY  EVENING. 

There's  a  sacred  soothing  sweetness, 

A  pervading  spirit  of  bliss, 
Peculiar  from  all  other  times, 

In  a  Sabbath  eve  like  this. 

Methinks,  though  I  knew  not  the  day. 
Nor  beheld  those  glad  faces,  yet  all 

Would  tell  me  that  Nature  was  keeping 
Some  solemn  festival. 

The  steer  and  the  steed  in  their  pastures 
Lie!"  down  with  a  look  of  peace. 

As  if  they  knew  'twas  commanded 

That  this  day  their  labours  should  cease. 

The  lark's  vesper  song  is  more  thrilling 
As  he  mounts  to  bid  Heaven  good-night ; 

The  brook  sings  a  quieter  tune — 
The  sun  sets  in  lovelier  lierht — 


'to' 


The  grass,  the  green  leaves,  and  the  flowers 
Are  tinged  with  more  exquisite  hues, 

More  odorous  incense  from  out  them 
Steams  up  with  the  evening  dews. 

So  I  sat  last  Sunday  evening 

Musing  on  all  these  things. 
With  that  quiet  gladness  of  spirit 

No  thought  of  this  world  brings  — 

I  watched  the  departing  glory. 
Till  its  last  red  streak  grew  pale. 

And  Earth  and  Heaven  were  woven 
In  Twilight's  dusky  veil. 
272 


MRS.  SOUTHEY. 

Then  the  lark  dropt  down  to  his  mate 
By  her  nest  on  the  de^vy  ground ; 

And  the  stir  of  human  life 

Died  away  to  a  distant  sound — 

All  sounds  died  away — the  light  laugh — 
The  far  footstep — the  merry  call — 

To  such  stillness,  the  pulse  of  one's  heart 
Might  have  echoed  a  rose-leaf's  fall — 


'O' 


And,  by  little  and  little,  the  darkness 

Waved  wider  its  sable  wings. 
Till  the  nearest  objects  and  largest 

Became  shapeless  confused  things — 

And,  at  last,  all  was  dark — then  I  felt 

A  cold  sadness  steal  over  my  heart,  \ 

And  I  said  to  myself,   "  Such  is  life ! 

So  its  hopes  and  its  pleasures  depart! 

"  And  when  night  comes — the  dark  night  of  age, 

Wliat  remaineth  beneath  the  sun 
Of  all  that  was  lovely  and  loved  1     - 

Of  all  we  have  learnt  and  done? 

"When  the  eye  waxeth  dim,  and  the  ear 

To  sweet  music  grows  dull  and  cold, 
And  the  fancy  burns  low,  and  the  heart — 

Oh,  Heavens !    can  the  heart  grow  old  ? 

"Then,  what  remaineth  of  life 

But  the  lees  with  bitterness  fraught? 
What  then?"— But  I  check'd  as  it  rose. 

And  rebuked  that  weak,  wicked  thought. 

273  s 


SUNDAY  EVENING. 

And  I  lifted  mine  eyes  up,  and,  lo ! 

An  answer  was  written  on  hijrh 
By  the  finger  of  God  himself, 

In  the  depths  of  the  dark  blue  sky. 

There  appeared  a  sign  in  the  east — 
A  bright,  beautiful,  fixed  star! — 

And  I  look'd  on  its  steady  light 
Till  the  evil  thoughts  fled  afar — 

And  the  lesser  lights  of  Heaven 

Shone  out  with  their  pale  soft  rays, 

Like  the  calm  unearthy  comforts 
Of  a  good  man's  latter  days — 

And  there  came  up  a  sweet  perfume 
From  the  unseen  flowers  below, 

Like  the  savour  of  virtuous  deeds, 
Of  deeds  done  long  ago; 

Like  the  mem'ry  of  well-spent  time — 
Of  things  that  were  holy  and  dear — 

Of  friends,   "  departed  this  life 
Li  the  Lord's  faith  and  fear." 

So  the  burthen  of  darkness  was  taken 
From  my  soul,  and  my  heart  felt  light ; 

And  I  laid  me  down  to  slumber 
With  peaceful  thoughts  that  night. 


274 


LEYDEN. 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 


How  SAveet  thy  modest  light  to  view, 
Fair  Star,  to  love  and  lovers  dear! 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

While  trembling  on  the  falling  dew 
Like  beauty  shining  through  a  tear. 

Or,  hanging  o'er  that  mirror-stream, 
To  mark  that  image  trembling  there, 

Thou  seem'st  to  smile  with  softer  gleam, 
To  see  thy  lovely  face  so  fair. 

Though,  blazing  on  the  arch  of  night. 
The  moon  thy  timid  beams  outshine 

As  far  as  thine  each  starry  light ; — 
Her  rays  can  never  vie  Avith  thine 

Thine  are  the  soft  enchanting  hours 
When  twilight  lingers  on  the  plain, 

And  whispers  to  the  closing  flowers. 
That  soon  the  sun  will  rise  again. 


Thine  is  the  breeze  that,  murmuring  bland 
As  music,  wafts  the  lover's  sigh. 

And  bids  the  yielding  heart  expand 
In  love's  delicious   ecstasy. 

Fair  Star!    though  I  be  doom'd  to  prove 
That  rapture's  tears  are  mix'd  with  pain. 

Ah  !    still  I  feel  'tis  sweet  to  love  ! 
But  sweeter  to  be  lov'd  again! 


276 


LEYDEN. 


TO  AN  INDIAN  GOLD  COIN. 


Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine ! 

What  vanity  has  brought  tliee  here? 
How  can  I  love  to  see  thee  shine 

So  bright,  whom  I  have  bought  so  dear? — 

The  tent-ropes  flapping  lone  I  hear 
For  twilight  converse,  arm  in  ai'm ; 

The  jackal's  shriek  bursts  on  mine  ear 
When  mirth  and  music  wont  to  charm. 

By  Cherical's  dark  Avandering  streams, 
Where  cane-tufts  shadow  all  the  wild. 

Sweet  visions  haunt  my  waking  dreams 
Of  Teviot  lov'd,  chill,  still,  and  mild, 
Of  castled  rocks  stupendous  pil'd 

By  Esk  or  Eden's  classic  wave, 

Wliere  loves  of  youth  and  friendship  smil'd, 

Uncurs'd  by  thee,  vile  yellow  slave ! 

Fadp,  day-dreams  sweet,  from  memory  fade  ! 

The  perish'd  bliss  of  youth's  first  prime, 
That  once  so  bright  on  fancy  play'd, 

Revives  no  more  in  after  time. 

Far  from  my  sacred  natal  clime, 
I  haste  to  an   untimely  grave ; 

The  daring  thoughts  that  soar'd  sublime 
Are  sunk  in  ocean's  southern  wave. 

Slave  of  the  mine !    thy  yellow  liglit 

Gleams  baleful  on  the   tomb-fire  drear — 

A  gentle  vision  comes  by  night 

My  lonely  widow'd  heart  to  cheer ; 

277 


TO  AN  INDIAN  GOLD  COIN. 

Her  eyes  arc  dim  with  many  a  tear, 
That  once  were  guiding  stars  to  mine: 

Her  fond  heart  throbs  with  many  a  fear  I- 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee  shine. 

For  thee,  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave, 
I  left  a  heart  that  lov'd  me  true ! 

I  cross'd  the  tedious  ocean-wave, 

To  roam  in  climes  unkind  and  new: 
The  cold  wind  of  the  stranger  blew 

Chill  on  my  wither' d  heart: — the  grave 
Dark  and  untimely  met  my  view — 

And  all  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave ! 

Ha !    com'st  thou  now  so  late  to  mock 

A  wanderei''s  banish'd  heart  forlorn. 
Now  that  his  frame  the  lightning  shock 

Of  sun-rays  tipt  with  death  has  borne? 

From  love,  from  friendship,  country,  torn, 
To  memory's  fond  regrets  the  prey, 

Vile  slave,  thy  yellow  dross  I  scorn! 
Go  mix  thee  with  thy  kindred  clay ! 


278 


CLARE. 


CLARE. 


MARY    LEE. 


I  HAVE  traced  the  valleys  fair 
In  May  morning's  dewy  air. 

My  bonny  INIary  Lee ! 
Wilt  thou  deign  the  wreath  to  wear. 

Gather' d  all  for  thee? 
They  are  not  flowers  of  Pride, 
For  they  graced  the  dingle-side ; 
Yet  they  grew  in  Heaven's  smile, 

My  gentle  Mary  Lee ! 
Can  they  fear  thy  frowns  the  while. 

Though  offered  by  me? 

Here's  the  lily  of  the  vale, 
That  perfumed  the  morning  gale, 

]My  fairy  Mary  Lee ! 
All  so  spotless  and  so  pale, 

Like  thine  own  purity. 
And  might  I  make  it  known, 
'Tis  an  emblem  of  my  own 
Love — if  I  dare  so  name 

JNIy  esteem  for  thee. 
Surely  flowers  can  bear  no  blame, 

My  bonny  IMary  Lee ! 
279 


MARY   LEE. 

Here's  the  violet's  modest  blue, 

That  'neath  hawthorns  hides  from  view, 

Mj  gentle  Mary  Lee, 
Would  show  whose  heart  is  true, 

Wliile  it  thinks  of  thee. 
While  they  choose  each  lowly  spot, 
The  sun  disdains  them  not ; 
I'm  as  lowly  too,  indeed. 

My  charming  Mary  Lee; 
So  I've  brought  the  flowers  to  plead, 

And  win  a  smile  from  thee. 

Here's  a  wild  rose  just  in  bud  ; 
Spring's  beauty  in  its  hood, 

My  bonny  Mary  Lee! 
'Tis  the  first  in  all  the  wood 

I  could  find  for  thee. 
Though  a  blush  is  scarcely  seen. 
Yet  it  hides  its  worth  within. 
Like  my  love;    for  I've  no  power. 

My  angel,  Mary  Lee, 
To  speak  unless  the  flower 

Can  make  excuse  for  me. 

Though  they  deck  no  princely  hall?. 
In  bouquets  for  glittering  balls. 

My  gentle  Mary  Lee! 
Richer  hues  than  painted  walls 

Will  make  them  dear  to  thee ; 
For  the  blue  and  laughing  sky 
Spreads  a  grander  canopy 
Than  all  wealth's  golden  skill,      % 

My  charming  Mary  Lee! 
Love  would  make  them  dearer  still, 

That  offers  them  to  thee. 
280 


CLARE. 

My  wreathed  flowers  are  few, 
Yet  no  fairer  drink  the  dew, 

My  bonny  Mary  Lee ! 
They  may  seem  as  trifles  too — 

Not,  I  hope,  to  thee. 
Some  may  boast  a  richer  prize 
Under  pride  and  wealth's  disguise ; 
None  a  fonder  offering  bore 

Than  this  of  mine  to  thee ; 
And  can  true  love  wish  for  more  ? 

Surely  not,  Mary  Lee ! 


281 


BEAINARD. 


SALMON  RIVER. 


Hie  viridis  tenera  prrotexit  arundine  ripas 
Mincius.— ViKGiL. 


'Tis  a  sweet  stream — and  so,  'tis  true,  are  all 
That  undisturbed,  save  by  the  harmless  brawl 
Of  mimic  rapid  or  slight  waterfall. 

Pursue  their  way 
By  mossy  bank,  and  darkly  waving  wood, 
By  rock,  that  since  the  Deluge  fixed  has  stood, 
Showing  to  sun  and  moon  their  crisping  flood 

By  night  and  day. 

But  yet  there's  something  in  its  humble  rank, 
Something  in  its  pure  wave  and  sloping  bank, 
Where  the  deer  sported,  and  the  young  fawn  drank 

With  unscared  look : 
There's  much  in  its  wild  history,  that  teems 
With  all  that's  superstitious— and  that  seems 
To  match  our  fancy  and  eke  out  our  dreams. 

In  that  small  brook. 

Havoc  has  been  upon  its  peaceful  plain, 
And  blood  has  dropped  there,  like  the  drops  of  rain  ; 
The  corn  grows  o'er  the  still  graves  of  the  slain — 
And  many  a  quiver, 
282 


BRAINARD. 

Filled  from  the  reeds  that  grew  on  yonder  hill, 
Has  spent  itself  in  carnage.     Now  'tis  still, 
And  whistling  ploughboys  oft  their  runlets  fill 
From  Salmon  Kiver. 

Hei'e,  say  old  men,  the  Indian  Magi  made 
Their  spells  by  moonlight ;    or  beneath  the  shade 
That  shrouds  sequestered  rock,  or  darkening  glade. 

Or  tangled  dell. 
Here  Philip  came,  and  Miantonimo, 
And  asked  about  their  fortunes  Ion";  ajro. 
As  Saul  to  Endor,  that  her  witch  might  show 

Old  Samuel. 

And  here  the  black  fox  roved,  and  howled,  and  shook 
His  thick  tail  to  the  hunters,  by  the  brook 
Where  they  pursued  their  game,  and  him  mistook 

For  earthly  fox; 
Thinking  to  shoot  him  like  a  shaggy  bear. 
And  his  soft  peltry,  stript  and  dressed,  to  wear. 
Or  lay  a  trap,  and  from  his  quiet  lair 

Transfer  him  to  a  box. 

Such  are  the  tales  thev  tell.     'Tis  liard  to  rhvme 

About  a  little  and  unnoticed  stream, 

That  few  have  heard  of — Ijut  it  is  a  theme 

I  chance  to  love ; 
And  one  day  I  may  tune  my  rye-straw  reed, 
And  whistle  to  the  note  of  many  a  deed 
Done  on  this  river — which,  if  there  be  need, 

ril    try  to  prove. 


283 


THE  BLACK  FOX  OF  SALMON  RIVER. 


THE  BLACK  FOX  OF  SALMON  RIVER. 

How  cold,  how  beautiful,  how  bright. 
The  cloudless  heaven  above  us  shines  ; 

But  'tis  a  howling  winter's  night, 
'Twould  freeze  the  very  forest  pines ! 

"  The  winds  are  up,  while  mortals  sleep ; 

The  stars  look  forth  when  eyes  are  shut ; 
The  bolted  snow  lies  drifted  deep 

Around  our  poor  and  lonely  hut. 

'^  With  silent  step  and  listening  ear, 
With  bow  and  arrow,  dog  and  gun. 

We'll  mark  his  track,  for  his  prowl  we  hear, 
Now  is  our  time ! — come  on,  come  on !" 

O'er  many  a  fence,   through  many  a  wood. 
Following  the  dog's  bcAvildered  scent, 

In  anxious  haste  and  earnest  mood, 
The  Indian  and  the  white  man  went. 

The  gun  is  cocked,  the  bow  is  bent, 
The  dog  stands  with  uplifted  paw, 

And  ball  and  arrow  swift  are  sent, 
Aimed  at  the  prowler's  very  jaw. 

The  ball,  to  kill  that  fox,  is  run 
Not  in  a  mould  by  mortals  made  ! 

The  arrow  which  that  fox  should  shun 
Was  never  shaped  from  earthly  reed ! 

The  Indian  Druids  of  the  wood 

Know  where  the  fatal  arrows  grow — 

They  spring  not  by  the  summer  flood, 

They  pierce  not  through  tlie  winter  snow ! 

284 


BRAINARD. 

Why  cowers  the  dog,  whose  snuffing  nose 
Was  never  once  deceived  till  now? 

And  why,  amid  the  chilling  snows, 
Does  either  hunter  wipe  his  brow? 

For  once  they  see  his  fearful  den, 
'Tis  a  dark  cloud  that  slowly  moves 

By  night  around  the  homes  of  men. 
By  day — along  the  stream  it  loves. 

Again  the  dog  is  on  his  track, 

The  hunters  chase  o'er  dale  and  hill, 

They  may  not,  though  they  would,  look  back, 
They  must  go  forward— forward  still. 

Onward  they  go,  and  never  turn, 

Spending  a  night  that  meets  no  day; 

For  them  .shall  never  mornino;  sun 
Light  them  upon  their  endless  way. 

The  hut  is  desolate,  and  there 
The  famished  dog  alone  returns ; 

On  the  cold  steps  he  makes  his  lair. 
By  the  shut  door  he  lays  lys  bones. 

Now  the  tired  sportsman  leans  his  gun 

Against  the  ruins  of  the  site, 
And  ponders  on  the  hunting  done 

By  the  lost  wanderers  of  the  night. 

And  there  the  little  country  girls 

Will  stop  to  whisper,  and  listen,  and  look, 

And  tell,  while  dressing  their  sunny  curls, 
Of  the  Black  Fox  of  Salmon  Brook. 


28.'; 


EDWAKD  COATE  PINKNEY. 


A  HEALTH. 


I  FILL  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness  alone, 

A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming  paragon  ; 

To  whom  the  better  elements  and  kindly  stars  have  given 

A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air,  'tis  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own,  like  those  of  morning  birds. 
And  something  more  than  melody  dwells  ever  in  her  Avords ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they,  and  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burthened  bee  forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her,  the  measures  of  her  hours  ; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy,  the  freshness  of  young  flowers ; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft,  so  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  -turns, — the  idol  of  past  years. 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace  a  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts  a  sound  must  long  remain ; 
But  memory  such  as  mine  of  her  so  very  much  endears. 
When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh  will  not  be  life's  but  hers. 

I  filled  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness  alone, 

A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming  paragon — 

Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood  some  more  of  such 

a  frame. 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry,  and  weariness  a  name. 

280 


EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY. 


A  PICTURE-SONG. 


llow  may  this  little  tablet  feign  the  features  of  a  face, 
Which  o'er-informs  with  loveliness  its  proper  share  of  space ; 
Or  human  hands  on  ivory  enable  us  to  see 
The  charms  that  all  must  wonder  at,  thou  work  of  gods,  in  thee ! 

But  yet,  methinks,  that  sunny  smUe  familiar  stories  tells. 
And  I  should  know  those  placid  eyes,  two  shaded  crystal  wells ; 
Nor  can  my  soul,  the  limner's  art  attesting  with  a  sigh. 
Forget  the  blood  that  decked  thy  cheek,  as  rosy  clouds  the  sky. 

They  could  not  semblc  what  thou  art,  more  excellent  than  fair, 
As  soft  as  sleep  or  pity  is,  and  pure  as  mountain  air  ; 
But  here  are  common,  earthly  hues,  to  such  an  aspect  wrought. 
That  none,  save  thine,  can  seem  so  like  the  beautiful  of  thought. 

The  song  I  sing,   thy  likeness  like,   is  painful  mimicry 
Of  something  better,  which  is  now  a  memory  to  me, 
Who  have  upon  life's  frozen  sea  arrived  the  icy  spot, 
Where  men's  magnetic  feelings  show  their  guidi:^  task  forgot. 

The  sportive  hopes,  that  used  to  chase  their  shifting  shadows  on. 
Like  children  playing  in  the  sun,  are  gone — foi-   ever  gone  ; 
And  on  a  careless,  sullen  peace,  my  double-fronted  mind. 
Like  Janus  when  his  gates  were  shut,  looks  forward  and  bt'liind. 

Apollo  placed  his  harp,  of  old,  awhile   upon  a  stone, 

Which    has    resounded    since,  when    struck,  a    breaking    haiji- 

string's  tone  ; 
And  thus  my  heart,  though  wholly  now  from  early  softness  free. 
If  touched,   will  yield   the  music  yet  it  first  received  of  lliee. 

287 


CLEMENT  C.  MOORE. 


A   VISIT   FROM   ST.    NICHOLAS. 


'TwAS  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through  the  house 
Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse ; 

288 


CLEMENT  C.  MOORE. 

The  stockings  were  hung  bj  the  chimney  with  care, 

In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be  there  ; 

The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds, 

While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced  in   their  heads ; 

And  Mamma  in  her  'kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 

Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's  nap ; 

When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 

I  sprang  from  the  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash. 

Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 

The  moon  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snoMv 

Gave  the  lustre  of  mid-day  to  objects  below. 

When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear, 

But  a  miniature  sleigh,  and  eight  tiny  rein-deer, 

With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 

I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 

More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 

And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by  name ; 

"Now,  Dasher/  now.  Dancer/  now,  Prancer /  and  Vixen/ 

On,  Comet  /  on,   Cupid  /  on,  Donder  and  Blitzen  / 

To  the  top  of  the  porch !    to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 

Now  dash  away !    dash  away !    dash  away  all !" 

As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly. 

When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the  sk}- ; 

So  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew, 

With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys,  and  St.  Nicholas  too. 

And  then,  in  a  twinkling,  I  heard  on  the  roof, 

The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof — 

As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 

Down  the  chimney  St.   Nicholas  came  with  a  bound. 

lie  was  dressed  all  in  fur  from  his  head  to  his  foot. 

And  his    clothes  were  all  tarnished   witli  ashes  and  soot  ; 

A  bundle  of  toys  he  had   flung  on   his   back. 

And  he  looked  like  a  pedlar  just   opening  his  pack. 

His  eyes — how  they  twinkled!    liis  dimples  how  merrA  ! 

His  cheeks  Avere  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry ! 

289  T 


A  VISIT  FROM  ST.  NICHOLAS. 

His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 

And  the  beard  of  his  chin  was  as  white  as  the  snow ; 

The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth, 

And  the  smoke  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath . 

He  had  a  broad  face  and  a  little  round  belly. 

That  shook,  when  he  laughed,  like  a  bowlful  of  jelly. 

He  was  chubby  and  plump,  a  right  jolly  old  elf, 

And  I  laughed  when  I  saw  him,  in   spite  of  myself; 

A  wink  of  his  eye  and  a  twist  of  his  head. 

Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread  ; 

He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his  work, 

And  filled  all  the  stockings  ;    then  turned  with  a  jerk, 

And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 

And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose ; 

He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a  whistle. 

And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a  thistle. 

But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out  of  sight, 

"  Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a  good-night .'" 


290 


BARTON. 


TO  THE  EVENING  PRIMROSE. 


Fair  flower,  that  slumn'st  the  glare  of  day 
Yet  lov'st  to  opgn,  meekly  bold, 

To  evening's  hues  of  silver  grey 
Thy  cup  of  paly  gold ; — 


Be  thine  the  offering,  owing  long 
To  thee,  and  to  this  pensive  hour, 

Of  one  brief  tributary  song. 

Though  transient  as  thy  flower. 
291 


TO  THE  EVENING  PRIMROSE. 

I  love  to  watch  at  silent  eve 

Thy  scatter'd  blossoms'  lonely  light, 

And  Iiave  my  inmost  heart  receive 
The  influence  of  that  sight. 

I  love  at  such  an  hour  to  mark 

Their  beauty  greet  the  night-breeze  chill, 
And  shine,  'raid  shadows  gathering  dark, 

The  garden's  glory  still. 

For  such  'tis  sweet  to  think   the  Avhile, 
When  cares  and  griefs  the  breast  invade. 

Is  fi'iendship's  animating  smile 
In  sorrow's  dark'ning  shade. 

Thus  it  bursts  forth,  like  thy  pale  cup — 
Glist'ning  amid  its  dewy  tears. 

And  bears  the  sinking  spirit  up 
Amid  its  chilling  fears — 

But  still  more  animating  far, 

If  meek  Religion's  eye  may  trace 

Even  in  thy  glimm'ring,  earth-born  star, 
The  holier  hope  of  Grace. 

The  hope,  that  as  thy  beauteous  bloom 
Expands  to  glad  the  close  of  day. 

So  through  the  shadows  of  the  tomb 
May  break  forth  Mercy's  ray. 


292 


SOTHEBY. 


RHINEFIELD,— A  LODGE  IN  THE  NEW  FOREST. 


Rhinefield  !  as  through  thy  solitude  I  rove, 
Now  lost  amid  the  deep  wood's  gloomy  night, 
Doubtful  I  trace  a  ray  of  glimmering  light ; 

Now  where  some  antique  oak,  itself  a  grove, 
Spreads  its  soft  umbrage  o'er  the  sunny  glado. 

Stretched  on  its  mossy  roots  at  early  dawn 

While  o'er  the  furze  with  light  l)ound  leaps  the  fawn. 
I  count  the  herd  that  crops  the  dewy  blade  : 

Frequent  at  eve  list  to  the  hum  profound 
That  all  around   upon   the  chill  breeze  floats, 
Broke  l)y  the  lonely  keeper's  wild,  strange  notes. 

At  distance  followed  by  the  browsing  deer ; 

Or  the  bewilder'd  stranger's  plaintive  sound 

That  dies  in  lessening  murmurs  on   the  ear. 

20.'? 


ON  CROSSING  THE  ANGLESEY  STRAIT. 
SKIRID, 

A  HILL  NEAR  ABERGAVENNY. 

Skirid  !    remembrance  thy  loved  scene  renews ; 

Fancy,  yet  lingering  on  thy  shaggy  brow, 

Beholds  around  the  lengthened  landscape  glow, 
Which  charmed,  when  late  the  day-beam's  parting  hues 

Purpled  the  distant  cliiF.     The  crystal  stream 
Of  Usk  bright  Avinds  the  verdant  meads  among ; 
The  dark  heights  lower  with  wild  woods  o'erhung ; 

Pale  on  the  grey  tower  falls  the  twilight  glean 
And  frequent  I  recal  the  sudden  breeze, 

Which,  as  the  sun  shot  up  his  last  pale  flame, 
Shook  every  light  leaf  shivering  on  the  trees : 

Then,  bathed  in  dew,  meek  evening  silent  came, 
While  the  low  wind,  that  faint  and  fainter  fell. 
Soft  murmured  to  the  dying  day — Farewell! 


ON  CROSSING  THE  ANGLESEY  STRAIT  TO  BANGOR  AT 

MIDNIGHT. 

'TwAS  night,  when  from  the  Druid's  gloomy  cave, 
Where  I  had  wandei''d,  tranced  in  thought,  alone 
'Mid  Cromlech's  and  the  Carnedd's  funeral  stone, 

Pensive  and  slow  I  sought  the  Menai's  wave  : 
Lulled  by  the  scene,  a  soothing  stillness  laid 

Each  pang  to  rest.     O'er  Snowdon's  cloudless  brow 

The  moon,  that  full  orb'd  rose,  with  peaceful  glow 
Beamed  on  the  rocks ;   with  many  a  star  arrayed, 

Glitter'd  the  broad  blue  sky ;    from  shore  to  shore 
O'er  the  smooth  current  streamed  a  silver  light, 
.Save  where  along  the  flood  the  lonely  height 
Of  rocky  Penmaenmaur  deep  darkness  spread  ; 

And  all  was  silence,  save  the  ceaseless  roar 
Of  Conway  bursting  on  the  ocean's  bed. 

294 


fC 


-^%;-:«?*A'<.  ^<^.  ■- 


W-,^       A  ■ 


BRYANT. 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 


OtJU  band  is  feAV,  but   true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold ; 
The  liritisli   soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree ; 
AVe  iinow  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea, 
295 


SONG  OF  MAKION'S  MEN. 

We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy-  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Wo  to  the  English  soldiery, 

That  little  dread  ns  near! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear: 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again. 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind. 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil : 
We  talk  the  battle  over. 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodla*nd  rings  with  laugh  and  shout. 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 
The  band  that  Marion  leads — 

The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 

'Tis  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb  * 

Across  the. moonlight  plain  ; 
29G 


BRYANT. 

'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 
That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 

A  moment  in  the  British  camp — 
A  moment — and  away 

Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 
Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs, 
Their  hearts  are  all  ^\ith  jNIarion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

AVith  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer. 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  do\\-n  no  more 
Till  Ave  have  driven   the  Briton, 

For  ever,  from  our  shore. 


297 


GREEN  RIVER. 

When  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair, 
I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care, 
And  hie  me  away  to  the  woodland  scene, 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  waters  of  green, 
As  if  the  bright  frinjie  of  herbs  on  its  brink 
Had  given  their  stain  to  the  wave  they  drink ; 
iLnd  they,  whose  meadows  it  murmurs  through. 
Have  named  the  stream  from  its  own  fair  hue. 


Yet  pure  its  waters — its  shallows  are  bright 
AVith  colored  pebbles  and  sparkles  of  light, 
And  clear  the  depths  where  its  eddies  play, 
And  dimples  deepen  and  whii-1  away, 

298 


BRYANT 

And  the  plane-tree's  speckled  arms  o'ershoot 

The  swifter  current  that  mines  its  root, 

Through  whose  shifting  leaves,  as  you  walk  the  hill, 

The  quivering  glimmer  of  sun  and  rill 

With  a  sudden  flash  on  the  eye  is  thrown. 

Like  the  ray  that  streams  from  the  diamond-stone 

Oh,  loveliest  there  the  spring  days  come, 

With  blossoms,  and  birds,  and  wild  bees'  hum ; 

The  flowers  of  summer  are  fairest  there, 

And  freshest  the  breath  of  the  summer  air ; 

And  sweetest  the  golden  autumn  day 

In  silence  and  sunshine  glides  away. 

Yet,  fair  as  thou  art,  thou  shunnest  to  glide, 
Beautiful  stream !    by  the  village  side ; 
15ut  windest  away  from  haunts  of  men, 
To  quiet  valley  and  shaded  glen ; 
And  forest,  and  meadow,  and  slope  of  hill, 
Around  thee,  are  lonely,  lovely,  and  still. 
Lonely,  save  when,  by  thy  rippling  tides, 
From  thicket  to  tliicket  the  angler  glides ; 
Or  the  simpler  comes  with  basket  and  book, 
For  herbs  of  power  on  thy  banks  to  look  ; 
Or  haply,  some  idle  dreamer,  like  me. 
To  wander,  and  muse,  and  gaze  on  thee. 
Still — save  the  chirp  of  birds  that  feed 
On  the  river  cherry  and  seedy  reed. 
And  thy  own  wild  music  gushing  out 
With  mellow  murmur  and  fairy  shout, 
From  dawn  to  the  blush  of  another  day 
Like  traveller  singing  along  his  way. 

That  I'airy  music  I  never  hear, 
Nor  gaze  on  those  waters  so  green  and  clear. 
And  mark  them  Avinding  away  from  sight, 
Darkened  with   shade  or  flashing  with  light, 

29'J 


GREEN  RIVER. 

AVhile  o'er  them  the  vine  to  its  thicket  clins?. 
And  the  zephyr  stoops  to  freshen  his  wings, 
But  I  wish  that  fate  had  left  me  free 
To  wander  these  quiet  haunts  with  thee, 
Till  the  eating  cares  of  earth  should  depart, 
And  the  peace  of  the  scene  pass  into  my  heart ; 
And  I  envy,  thy  stream  as  it  glides  along, 
Through  its  beautiful  banks  in  a  trance  of  song. 

Though  forced  to  drudge  for  the  dregs  of  men, 

And  scrawl  strange  words  with  the  barbarous  pen, 

And  mingle  among  the  jostling  crowd, 

Wliere  the  sons  of  strife  are  subtle  and  loud  — 

I  often  come  to  this  quiet  place. 

To  breathe  the  airs  that  ruffle  thy  face, 

And  gaze  upon  thee  in  silent  dx-eam, 

For  in  thy  lonely  and  lovely  stream 

An  image  of  that  calm  life  appears 

That  Avon  my  heart  in  my  greener  years. 


300 


BEYANT. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year. 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown  and  sere. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  groye,  the  autumn  leayes  lie  dead ; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs  the  jay, 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately  sprang  and  stood 

In  brighter  light,  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood  ? 

Alas  !    they  all  are  in  their  grayes,  the  gentle  race  of  flowers  ' 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of  ours. 

The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold  Noyember  rain 

Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  loyely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  yiolet,  they  perished  long  ago, 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer  glow  ; 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 

And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook  in  autumn  beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the  plague  en  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from  upland,  glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still  such  days  Avill  come, 

To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  A\inter  home ; 

When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the^arees  arc  still, 

And  twinkle  in    the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 

The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  Avhose  fragrance  late  he  boro. 

And  sighs  to  find  tluMn  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no  moi-e 

And  then  I  think   of  one  who  in  lier  youthful  beauty  died. 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side : 
In   the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  \vlien  the  forests  cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  loyely  should  haye  a  life  so  brief: 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 

301 


THE  LAND  OF  DREAMS. 


THE  LAND  OF  DREAMS. 


A  MIGHTY  realm  is  the  Land  of  Dreams, 
With  steeps  that  hang  in  the  twilight  sky, 

And  weltering  oceans  and  trailing  streams, 
That  gleam  where  the  dusky  valleys  lie. 

But  over  its  shadowy  border  flow 

Sweet  rays  from  the  world  of  endless  morn, 

And  the  nearer  mountains  catch  the  glow, 
And  flowers  in  the  nearer  fields  are  born. 

The  souls  of  the  happy  dead  repair, 

From  their  bowers  of  light,  to  that  bordering  land, 
And  walk  in  the  fainter  glory  there. 

With  the  souls  of  the  living  hand  in  hand. 

One  calm  sweet  smile,  in  that  shadowy  sphere. 
From  eyes  that  open  on  earth  no  more — 

One  warning  word  from  a  voice  once  dear — 
How  they  rise  in  the  memory  o'er  and  o'er ! 

Far  off  from  those  hills  that  shine  with  day, 
And  fields  that  bloom  in  the  heavenly  gales. 

The  Land  of  Dreams  goes  stretching  away 
To  dimmer  mountains  and  darker  vales. 

There  lie  tlie  chambers  of  guilty  delight. 
There  walk  the  spectres  of  guilty  fear, 

And  soft  low  voices,  that  float  through  the  night, 
Are  whispering  sin  in  the  helpless  ear. 

302 


BRYANT. 

Dear  maid,  in  thy  girlhood's  opening  flower. 
Scarce  weaned  from  the  love  of  childish  play ! 

The  tears  on  whose  cheeks  are  but  the  shower 
That  freshens  the  early  blooms  of  May! 

Thine  eyes  are  closed,  and  over  thy  brow 
Pass  thoughtful  shadows  and  joyous  gleams, 

And  I  know,  by  thy  moving  lips,  that  now 
Thy  spirit  strays  in  the  Land  of  Dreams. 

Light-hearted  maiden,  oh,  heed  thy  feet ! 

O  keep  where  that  beam  of  Paradise  falls. 
And  only  wander  where  thou  may'st  meet 

The  blessed  ones  from  its  shinins;  walls. 

So  shalt  thou  come  from  the  Land  of  Dreams, 
With  love  and  peace  to  this  world  of  strife ; 

And  the  light  that  over  that  border  streams 
Shall  lie  on  the  path  of  thy  daily  life. 


303 


THE  HUNTER  OF  THE  PRAIRIES. 


Ay,  this  is  freedom! — these  pure  skies 

AVere  never  stained  Avith  village  smoke : 
The  fragrant  wind,  that  through  them  flies, 

Is  breathed  from  wastes  by  plough  unbroke. 
Here,  Avith  my  rifle  and  my  steed, 

And  her  who  left  the  world  for  me, 
I  plant  me  where  the  red  deer  feed 

In  the  green  desert — and  am  free. 

a04 


BRYANT. 

For  here  the  fair  savannas  know 

No  barriers  in  the  bloomy  grass ; 
Wherever  breeze  of  heaven  may  blow, 

Or  beam  of  heaven  may  glance,  I  pass. 
In  pastures,  measureless  as  air, 

The  bison  is  my  noble  game ; 
The  bounding  elk,  whose  antlers  tear 

The  branches,  tails  before  my  aim. 

Mine  arc  the  river-fowl  that  scream 

From  the  long  stri})e  of  waving  sedge; 
The  bear  that  marks  my  weapon's  gleam, 

Hides  vainly  in  the  forest's  edge  ; 
In  vain  the  she- wolf  stands  at  bay  ; 

The  brinded  catamount,  that  lies 
High  in  tlie  boughs  to  watch  his  prey. 

Even  in  the  act  of  springing,  dies. 

With  what  free  gi'owth  the  elm  and  plane 

Fling  their  huge  arms  across  my  Avay, 
Gray,  old,  and  cumbered  Avith  a  train 

Of  vines,  as  huge,  and  old,  and  gray! 
Free  stray  the  lucid  streams,  and  find 

No  taint  in  these  fresh  lawns  and  shades ; 
Free  spring  the  flowers  that  scent  the  wind 

Where  never  scythe  has  swept  the  glades. 

Alone  the  Fire,  when  frost-winds  sere 

The  hea\y  herbage  of  the  ground, 
Gathers  his  annual  harvest  here. 

With  roaring  like  the  battle's  sound, 
And  hurrying  flames  that  sweep  the  plain, 

And  smoke-streams  gusliing  up  the  sky : 
I  meet  the  flames  with  flames  again. 

And  at  my  door  they  cower  and  die. 

305 


THE  HUNTER  OF  THE  PRAIEIES. 

Plere,  from  dim  woods,  the  aged  past 

Speaks  solemnly ;  and  I  behold 
The  boundless  future  in  the  vast 

And  lonely  river,  seaward  rolled. 
Who  feeds  its  founts  with  rain  and  dew ; 

Who  moves,  I  ask,  its  gliding  mass. 
And  trains  the  bordering  vines,  whose  blue 

Bright  clusters  tempt  me  as  I  pass? 

Broad  ai'e  these  streams — my  steed  obeys, 

Plunges,  and  bears  me  through  the  tide. 
Wide  are  these  woods — I  thread  the  maze 

Of  giant  stems,  nor  ask  a  guide. 
I  hunt  till  day's  last  glimmer  dies 

O'er  woody  vale  and  grassy  height ; 
And  kind  the  voice  and  glad  the  eyes 

That  Avelcome  my  return  at  night. 


306 


THE  GLADNESS  OF  NATURE. 


Is  this  a  time  to  be  eloudy  and  sad, 

When  our  mother  Nature  laughs  around; 

When  even   the  deep  blue  heavens  look  glad, 

And  gladness  breathes  from  the  blossoming  ground? 

307 


WILLIAM  TELL. 

There  are  notes  of  joy  from  the  hang-bird  and  -wTen, 
And  the  gossip  of  swallows  through  all  the  sky ; 

The  ground-squirrel  gayly  chirps  by  his  den, 
And  the  wilding  bee  hums  merrily  by. 

The  clouds  are  at  play  in  the  azure  space, 

And  their  shadows  at  play  on  the  bright  green  vale, 

And  here  they  stretch  to  the  frolic  chase, 
And  there  they  roll  on  the  easy  gale. 

There's  a  dance  of  leaves  in  that  aspen  bower, 
There's  a  titter  of  winds  in  that  beechen  tree, 

There's  a  smile  on  the  fruit  and  a  smile  on   the  flower. 
And  a  laugh  from  the  brook  that  runs  to  the  sea. 

And  look  at  the  broad-faced  sun,  how  he  smiles 
On  the  dewy  earth  that  smiles  in  his  ray. 

On  the  leaping  waters  and  gay  young  isles ; 
Ay,  look,  and  he'll  smile  thy  gloom  away. 


WILLIAM.  TELL. 

Chains  may  subdue  the  feeble  spirit,  but  thee, 
Tell,  of  the  iron  heart !  they  could  not  tame ! 
For  thou  wert  of  the  mountains;  they  proclaim 

The  everlasting  creed  of  liberty. 

That  creed  is  Avritten  on  the  untrampled  snow, 
Thundered  by  torrents  which  no  power  can  hold. 
Save  that  of  God,  when  he  sends  forth  his  cold. 

And  breathed  by  winds  that  through  the  free  heaven  blow. 

Thou,  while  thy  prison  w'alls  were  dark  around, 
Didst  meditate  the  lesson  Nature  taught. 
And  to  thy  brief  captivity  was  brought 

A  vision  of  thy  Switzerland  unbound. 

The  bitter  cup  they  mingled,  strengthened  thee 
For  the  great  work  to  set  thy  country  free. 

308 


BRYANT. 


AN  INVITATION  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 

All  day,  from  shrubs  by  our  summer  dwelling, 
The  Easter-sparrow  repeats  his  song, 

A  merry  warbler,  he  chides  the  blossoms, 
The  idle  blossoms,  that  sleep  so  long. 

The  blue-bird  chants,  from  the  elm's  long  branches, 
A  hymn  to  welcome  the  budding  year ; 

The  south-wind  wanders  from  field  to  forest, 
And  softly  whispers,  The  spring  is  here! 

Come,  daughter  mine,  from  the  gloomy  city. 
Before  these  lays  from  the  elm  have  ceased ; 

The  violet  breathes  by  our  door  as  SAveetly 
As  in  the  air  of  her  nati\'e  East. 

Though  many  a  flower  in  the  wood  is  waking. 

The  dafibdil  is  our  door-side  queen ; 
She  pushes  upward  the  sward  already, 

To  spot  with  sunshine  the  early  green. 

No  lays  so  joyous  as  these  are  warbled 
From  wiry  prison  in   maiden's  bower  ; 

No  pampered  bloom  of  the  green-house  chamber 
Has  half  the  charm  of  the  lawn's  first  flowci-. 

Yet  these  sweet  lays  of  the  early  season 
And  these  fair  sights  of  its  sunny  days, 

Are  only  sweet  when  Ave  fondly  listen, 
And  only  fair  when  we  fondly  gaze. 

301) 


AN  INVITATION  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 

There  is  no  glory  in  star  or  blossom 
Till  looked  upon  by  a  loving  eye ; 

There  is  no  fragrance  in  April  breezes 

Till  breathed  with  joy  as  they  Avander  by. 

Come,  Julia  dear,  for  the  sprouting  willows, 
The  opening  flowers,  and  the  gleaming  brooks, 

And  hollows  green  in  the  sun  are  Avaiting 
Their  dower  of  beauty  from  thy  glad  looks. 


310 


DRAKE. 


BRONX. 


I  SAT  me  down   upon  a  green  bank-side, 
Skirting  the  smooth  edge  of  a  gentle  river, 

Whose  waters  seemed  unwillingly  to  glide. 

Like  parting  friends  who  linger  Avhile  they  sever; 

Enforced  to  go,  yet  seeming  still  unready. 

Backward  they  wind  their  way  in  many  a  wistful  eddy. 

311 


BRONX. 

Gray  o'er  my  head  the  yellow-vested  willow 
Ruffled  its  hoary  top  in  the  fresh  breezes, 

Glancing  in  light,  like  spray  on  a  green  billow, 
Or  the  fine  frostwork  which  young  winter  freezes, 

When  first  his  power  in  infant  pastime  trying, 

Congeals  sad  autumn's  tears  on  the  dead  branches  lying. 


From  rocks  around  hung  the  loose  ivy  dangling, 

And  in  the  clefts  sumach  of  liveliest  green. 
Bright  ising-stars  the  little  beach  was  spangling, 

The  gold -cup  sorrel  from  his  gauzy  screen 
Shone  like  a  fairy  crown,  enchased  and  beaded. 
Left  on  some  morn,  when  light  flashed  in  their  eyes  unheeded. 


The  humbird  shook  his  sun-touched  wings  around. 
The  bluefinch  caroU'd  in  the  still  retreat; 

The  antic  squirrel  capered  on  the  ground 
Where  lichens  made  a  carpet  for  his  feet : 

Through  the  transparent  Avaves,  the  ruddy  minkle 

Shot  up  in  glimmering  sparks  his  red  fin's  tiny  twinkle. 


There  were  dark  cedars  with  loose  mossy  tresses. 
White  powdered  dog-trees,  and  stiff  hollies  flaunting 

Gaudy  as  rustics  in  their  May-day  dresses, 
Blue  pelloret  from  purple  leaves  upslanting 

A  modest  gaze,  like  eyes  of  a  young  maiden 

Shining  beneath  dropt  lids  the  evening  of  her  wedding. 


Tlie  breeze  fresh  springing  from  the  lips  of  morn. 
Kissing  the  leaves,  and  sighing  so  to  lose  'em, 

Tiie  windiug  of  the  merry  locust's  horn, 

The  glad  spring  gushing  from  the  rock's  bare  bosom : 

Sweet  sights,  sweet  sounds,  all  sights,  all  sounds  excelling, 

Oh!  'twas  a  ravishing  spot  formed  for  a  poet's  dwelling. 

312 


DRAKE. 

And  did  I  leave  thy  loveliness,  to  stand 

Again  in  the  dull  world  of  earthly  blindness  ? 

Pained  with  the  pressure  of  unfriendly  hands, 
Sick  of  smooth  looks,  agued  with  icy  kindness? 

Left  I  for  this  thy  shades,  where  none  intrude, 

To  prison  Avandering  thought  and  mar  sweet  solitude? 


Yet  I  will  look  upon  thy  face  again. 
My  own  romantic  Bronx,  and  it  will  be 

A  face  more  pleasant  than  the  face  of  men. 
Thy  waves  are  old  companions,  I  shall  see 

A  well-remembered  form  in  each  old  tree. 

And  hear  a  voice  long  loved  in  thy  wild  minstrelsy. 


SONNET. 

Is  thy  heart  weary  of  unfeeling  men. 

And  chilled  with  the  world's  ice?     Then  come  with  me, 

And  I  will  bring  thee  to  a  pleasant  glen 

Lovely  and  lonely.     There  we'll  sit,  unviewed 

By  scolhng  eye ;  and  let  our  liearts  beat  free 

With  their  own  mutual  throb.     For  wild  and  rude 

The  access  is,  and  none  will  there  intrude, 

To  poison  our  free  thoughts,  and  mar  our  solitude  ! 

Such  scenes  move  not  their  feelings — ibr  they  hold 
No  I'ellowship  with  nature's  loneliness  ; 
The  frozen  wave  reflects  not  back  the  gold 

Arid  crimson  flushes  of  the  sun-set  hour  ; 

The  rock  lies  cold  in  sunshine — not  the  power 
Of  heaven's  bright  orb  can  clothe  its  barrciniess. 

313 


HALLECK. 

RED    JACKET. 

A  CHIEF  OF  THE  INDIAN  TRIBES,  THE  TUSCARORAS. 

ON  LOOKING  AT  HIS  PORTRAIT  BY  WEIR. 


Cooper,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven, 
First  in  her  files,  her  Pioneer  of  mind — 

A  wanderer  now  in  other  climes,  has  proven 
His  love  for  the  young  land  he  left  behind; 

314 


haLleck. 

And  throned  her  in  the  senate-hall  of  nations, 
Kobed  like  the  deluge  rainbow,  heaven-wrought ; 

Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations, 

And  beautiful  as  its  green  world  of  thought : 

And  faithful  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  quoted 
As  law  authority,  it  passed  nem.  con. : 

He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have  voted, 
The  most  enlightened  people  ever  known. 

That  all  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 
In  Paris,  full  of  song,  and  dance,  and  laugh ; 

And  that,  from  Orleans  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
There's  not  a  bailiif  or  an  epitaph. 

And  furthermore — in  fifty  years,  or  sooner, 
We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine; 

And  our  brave  fleet,  eight  frigates  and  a  schooner, 
Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zembla  to  the  Line. 

If  he  were  A\'ith  me,  King  of  Tuscarora! 

Gazing,  as  I,  upon  thy  portrait  now. 
In  all  its  medalled,  fringed,  and  beaded  glory. 

Its  eye's  dark  beauty,  and  its  thoughtful  brow — 

Its  brow,  half  martial  and  half  diplomatic, 
Its  eye,  upsoaring  like  an  eagle's  wings; 

Well  might  he  boast  that  we,  the  Democratic, 
Outrival  Europe,  even  in  our  Kings ! 

For  thou  wast  monarch  born.     Tradition's  pages 
Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree, 

But  that  the  forest  tribes  have  bent  for  ages 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  subject  knee. 

Thy  name  is  princely — if  no  poet's  magic 

Could  make  Red  Jacket  grace  an  English  rhyme, 

Though  some  one  with  a  genius  for  the  tragic 
Hath   introduced  it  in  a  pantomime, 


RED  JACKET. 

Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 

Of  thine  own  land  ;  and  on  her  herald  roll ; 

As  bravely  fought  foi',  and  as  proud  a  token 
As  Coeur  de  Lion's  of  a  warrioi''s  soul. 

Thy  gai'b — though  Austria's  bosom-star  would  frighten 
That  medal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark  mine, 

And  George  the  Fourth  wore,  at  his  court  at  Brighton, 
A  more  becoming  evening  dress  than  thine  ; 

Yet  'tis  a  brave  one,  scorning  wind  and  weather, 
And  fitted  for  thy  couch,  on  field  and  flood. 

As  Rob  Roy's  tartan  for  the  Highland  heather. 
Or  forest  gi'een  for  England's  Robin  Hood. 

Is  strength  a  monarch's  merit,  like  a  whaler's"? 

Thou  art  as  tall,  as  sinewy,  and  as  strong 
As  earth's  first  kings — the  Argo's  gallant  sailors. 

Heroes  in  history,  and  gods  in  song. 

Is  beauty  ? — Thine  has  with  thy  youth  departed ; 

But  the  love-legends  of  thy  manhood's  years. 
And  she  who  perished,  young  and  broken-hearted. 

Are — but  I  rhyme  for  smiles  and  not  for  tears. 

Is  eloquence? — Her  spell  is  thine  that  reaches 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head  its  sporl ; 

And  there's  one  rare,  strange  virtue  in  thy  speeches, 
The  secret  of  their  mastery — they  are  short. 

The  monarch  mind,  the  mystery  of  commanding. 
The  birth-hour  gift,   the  art  Napoleon, 

Of  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  wielding,  banding 
The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move  as  one : 

Thou  hast  it.      At  thy  Ijidding  mori  have  crowded 

The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival ; 
And  minstrels,  at  their  sepulchres,  have  shrouded 

With  banner-folds  of  glory  the  dark  pall. 

316 


HALLECK. 

Who  will  believe  ?     Not  I — for  in  deceiving 
Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful  dream  ; 

I  cannot  spare  the  luxury  of  believing 

That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they  seem  ;r 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  Avhose  blessing 
Would,  like  the  Patriarch's,  soothe  a  dying  hour, 

With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing, 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  in  moonlit  bower ; 

With  look,  like  patient  Job's,  eschewing  evil ; 

With  motions  graceful  as  a  bird's  in  air  ; 
Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 

That  e'er  clenched  fingers  in  a  captive's  hair! 

That  in  thy  breast  there  springs  a  poison  fountain, 
Deadlier  than  that  where  bathes  the  Upas-tree ; 

And  in  thy  wrath,  a  nursing  cat-o'-mountain 

Is  calm  as  her  babe's  sleep  compared  Avith  thee  ! 

And  underneath  that  face,  like  summer  ocean's, 
Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions, 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow — all  save  fear. 

Love — for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy  daughter, 
Her  pipe  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in  wars ; 

Hatred — of  missionaries  and  cold  water ; 
Pride — in  thy  rifle-trophies  and  thy  scars ; 

Hope — that  thy  wrongs  may  be,  by  the  Great  Spirit, 
Remembered  and  revenged  Avhen  thou  art  gone ; 

Sorrow — that  none  are  left  thee  to  inherit 

Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and  thy  throne ! 


317 


CONNECTICUT. 


(FROM  AN  UNPUBLISHED  POEM.) 


Still  her  gray  rocks  tower  above  the  sea 

That  crouches  at  their  feet,  a  conquered  wave ; 

'Tis  a  ]"ough  land   of  earth,  and  stone,  and  tree, 
Where  breathes  no  castled  lord  or  cabined  slave  ; 

Where  thoughts,  and  tongues,  and  hands  are  bold  and  free, 
And  friends  will  find  a  welcome,  foes  a  grave  ; 

And  where  none  kneel,  save  when  to  heaven  they  pray. 

Nor  even  then,  unless  in  their  own  way. 

318 


HALLECK. 

Theirs  is  a  pure  republic,  wild,  yet  strong, 
A  "fierce  democracie,"  Avhere  all  are  true 

To  what  themselves  have  voted — rijiht  or  wrong; — 
And  to  their  laws  denominated  blue  ; 

(If  red,  they  might  to  Draco's  code  belong  ;) 
A  vestal  state,  which  power  could  not  subdue. 

Nor  promise  win — like  her  own  eagle's  nest. 

Sacred — the  San  JNIarino  of  the  West. 

A  justice  of  the  peace,  for  the  time  being, 

They  bow  to,  but  may  turn  him  out  next  year ; 

They  reverence  their  priest,  but  disagreeing 
In  price  or  creed,  dismiss  him  without  fear; 

They  have  a  natural  talent  for  foreseeing 

And  knowing  all  things  ;    and  should  Park  appear 

From  his  long  tour  in  Africa,  to  show 

The  Niger's  source,  they'd  meet  him  with — "We  know." 

They  love  their  land,  because  it  is  their  own, 
And  scorn  to  give  aught  other  reason  why; 

Would  shake  hands  with  a  king  upon  his  throne. 
And  think  it  khidness  to  his  majesty ; 

A  stubborn  race,  fearing  and  flattering  none. 

Such  are  they  nurtured,  such  they  live  and  die : 

All — but  a  few  apostates,  who  are  meddling 

With  merchandise,  pounds,  shillings,  pence,  and  peddling ; 

Or  wandering  thi'ouizh  the  southern  countries,  teachin<r 
The  ABC  from  Webster's  spelling-book ; 

Gallant  and  godly,  making  love  and  preaching. 

And  gaining  by  what  they  call  "hook  and  crook,"' 

And  wliat  the  moralists  call  overreaching, 
A  decent  living.      The  Virginians  look 

Upon   them  with  as  favourable  eyes 

As  Gabritl  on  the  devil  in  Paradise. 

319 


CONNECTICUT. 

But  these  are  but  their  outcasts.     View  them  near 
At  home,  where  all  their  Avorth  and  pride  is  placed ; 

And  there  their  hospitable  fires  burn  clear, 

And  there  the  lowliest  farmhouse  hearth  is  graced 

With  manly  hearts,  in  piety  sincere, 

Faithful  in  love,  in  honour  stern  and  chaste, 

In  friendship  warm  and  true,  in  danger  brave. 

Beloved  in  life,  and  sainted  in  the  grave. 

And  minds  have  there  been  nurtured,  whose  control 

Is  felt  even  in  their  nation's  destiny; 
Men  who  swayed  senates  with  a  statesman's  soul. 

And  looked  on  armies  with  a  leader's  eye ; 
Names  that  adorn  and  dignify  the  scroll. 

Whose  leaves  contain  their  country's  history, 
And  tales  of  love  and  war — listen  to  one 
Of  the  Green-Mountaineer — the  Stark  of  Bennington. 

When  on  that  field  his  band  the  Hessians  fought. 
Briefly  he  spoke  before  the  fight  began : 

"  Soldiers !    those  German  gentlemen  are  bought 
For  four  pounds  eight  and  sevenpence  per  man, 

By  England's  king;    a  bargain,  as  is  thought. 

Are  we  worth  more  ?     Let's  prove  it  now  we  can ; 

For  we  must  beat  them,  boys,  ere  set  of  sun, 

Or  Maky  Stark's  a  avidow!"     It  was  done. 


Hers  are  not  Tempe's  nor  Arcadia's  spring, 
Nor  the  long  summer  of  Cathayan  vales. 

The  vines,  the  flowers,  the  air,  the  skies,  that  fling 
Such  wild  enchantment  o'er  Boccaccio's  tales 

Of  Florence  and  the  Arno ;    yet  the  wing 
Of  life's  best  angel.  Health,  is  on  her  gales 

Through  sun  and  snow  ;    and  in  the  autumn  time 

Earth  has  no  purer  and  no  lovelier  clime. 

320 


HALLECK. 

Her  clear,  warm  heaven  at  noon — the  mist  that  shrouds 
Her  twilight  hills — her  cool  and  starry  eves, 

'J'he  glorious  splendour  of  her  sunset  clouds, 

The  rainbow  beauty  of  her  forest  leaves,  c 

Come  o'er  the  eye,  in  solitude  and  crowds, 
Where'er  his  web  of  song  her  poet  weaves ; 

And  his  mind's  brightest  vision  but  displays 

The  autunm  scenery  of  his  boyhood's  days. 

And  when  you  dream  of  woman,  and  her  love ; 

Her  truth,  her  tenderness,  her  gentle  power ; 
The  maiden  listening  in  the  moonlight  grove, 

The  mother  smiling  in  her  infant's  bower ; 
Forms,  features,  worshipped  while  Ave  breathe  or  move, 

Be  by  some  spirit  of  your  dreammg  hour 
Borne,  like  Loretto's  chapel,  through  the  air 
To  the  green  land  I  sing,  then  wake,  you'll  iind  them  there. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE, 

OF  NEW  YORK,  SEPT.,  1S'20. 

"The  good  die  first, 
And  they,  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust, 
Burn  to  the  socket." — WoKosuoitTii. 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days ! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  tliee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying. 
From  eyes  unused  to  Aveep, 

And  long  where  thou  art  lying, 
Will   tc'ai-s  the  cold   turf  steep. 
321 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 


"Wlien  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth  ; 


And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 

Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow. 
Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine : 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow, 
But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it. 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  gi-ief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


322 


HORACE  SMITH. 

t 

THE   FIRST   OF   MARCH. 

The  bud  is  in  the  bougli,  and  the  leaf  is  in  the  bud, 
And  Earth's  besjinning  now  in  her  veins  to  feel  the  blood, 
Which  warm'd  by  summer  suns  in  th'  alembic  of  the  vine. 
From  her  founts  Avill  over-run   in  a  ruddy  gush  of  wine. 

The  perfume  and  the  bloom  that  shall  decorate  the  flower, 
Are  quickening  in  the  gloom  of  their  subterranean  bower  ; 
And  the  juices  meant  to  feed  trees,  vegetables,  fruits, 
Unerringly  proceed  to  their  pre-appointed  roots. 

How  awful  is  the  thought  of  the  wonders  underground, 

Of  the  mystic  changes  wrought  in   the  silent,  dark  profound  ; 

How  each  thing  upward  tends  by  necessity  decreed. 

And  a  world's  support  depends  on  the  shooting  of  a  seed ! 

The  summer's  in  her  ark,  and  this  sunny-pinion'd  day 

Is  commission'd  to  remark  whether  Winter  holds  her  sway : 

Go  back,  thou  dove  of  peace,  with  the  myrtle  on  thy  wing. 

Say  that  floods  and  tempests  cease,  and  the  world  is  ripe  iur  Spring. 

Tiiou  hast  fanii'd  the  sleeping  Earth  till  her  dre;inis  are  all  of  (lowers, 
And  the  waters  look  in   mirth  for  their  overhanging  bowers  ; 
The  forest  seems  to  listen  ibr  the  rustle  of  its  leaves. 
And  the  very  skies  to  glisten  in   the  hope  of  summer  eves. 

Thy  vivifying  spell  has  been  felt  beneath   the   wave, 
By  the  dormouse  in  its  cell,  and  the  mole  within  its  cave  ; 
And  the  sunnner  tribes  that  creep,  or  in  air  expand  tlieir  wing. 
Have  started  from  their  sleej)  at  the  summons  of  the  Spring. 
« 

323 


HARVEST  HOME. 

The  cattle  lift  their  voices  from  the  valleys  and  the  hills, 
And  the  feather'd  race  rejoices  with  a  gush  of  tuneful  bills 
And  if  this  cloudless  arch  tills  the  poet's  song  with  glee, 
O  thou  sunny  first  of  March,  be  it  dedicate  to  thee. 


DARLEY. 


HARVEST  HOME. 


Down  the  dimpled  green-sward  dancing 
Bursts  a  flaxen-headed  bevy, 

Bud-lipt  boys  and  girls  advancing, 
Love's  irregular  little  levy. 

Rows  of  liquid  eyes  in  laughter. 

How  they  glimmer,  how  they  quiver ! 

Sparkling  one  another  after. 
Like  bright  ripples  on  a  river. 

Tipsy  band  of  rubious  faces. 

Flushed  with  joy's  ethereal  spirit, 

Make  your  mocks  and  sly  grimaces 
At  Love's  self,  and  do  not  fear  it. 
324 


PRAED. 


CHILDHOOD  AND  HIS  VISITORS. 


Once  on  a  time,  when  sunny  May 

Was  kissing  up  the  April  showers, 
I  saw  fair  Childhood  hard  at  play 

Upon  a  bank  of  blushing  flowers ; 
Happy, — he  knew  not  whence  or  how ; 

And  smUing, — who  could  choose  b"ut  love  him "'. 
For  not  more  glad  than  Childhood's  brow, 

Was  the  blue  heaven  that  beamed  above  him. 

Old  Time,  in  most  appalling  TVTath, 

That  valley's  green  repose  invaded ; 
The  brooks  grew  dry  upon  his  path, 

The  birds  were  mute,  the  lilies  faded  ; 
But  Time  so  swiftly  winged  his  flight. 

In  haste  a  Grecian  tomb  to  batter. 
That  Childhood  watched  his  paper  kite. 

And  knew  just  nothing  of  the  matter. 

With  curling  lip,  and  glancing  eye, 

Guilt  gazed  upon  the  scene  a  minute. 
But  Childhood's  glance  of  purity 

Had  such  a  holy  spell  within  it, 
That  the  dark  demon  to  the  air 

Spread  forth  again  his  baffled  pinion, 
And  hid  his  envy  and  despair. 

Self-tortured,  in  his  OAvn  dominion. 

325 


CHILDHOOD  AND  HIS  VISITORS. 

Then  stepped  a  gloomy  phantom  up, 

Pale,  cypress-crowned,  Night's  awfid  daughter, 
And  proffered  him  a  fearful  cii[), 

Full  to  the  brim  of  bitter  water: 
Poor  Cmi^DHOOD  bade  her  tell  her  name. 

And  when  the  beldaine  muttered  "Sokkow,"' 
Fie  said, — "  Don't  interrupt  my  game  ; 

I'll  taste  it,  if  I  must,  to-morrow." 

The  Muse  of  Pindus  thither  came. 

And  wooed  him  with  the  softest  numbers 
That  ever  scattered  wealth  and  fame 

Upon  a  youthful  poet's  slumbers; 
Though  sweet  the  music  of  the  lay, 

To  Childhood  it  was  all  a  riddle. 
And  "Oh,"  he  cried,  "do  send  away  « 

That  noifey  woman  with  the  fiddle." 

Then  Wisdom  stole  his  bat  and  ball. 

And  taught  him  with  most  sage  endeavour, 
Why  bubbles  rise,  and  acorns  fall. 

And  why  no  toy  may  last  for  ever : 
She  talked  of  all  the  Avondrous  laws 

Which  Nature's  open  book  discloses, 
And  Childhood,  ere  she  made  a  pause. 

Was  fast  asleep  among  the  roses. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on  I — Oh !  Manhood's  dreams 

Are  all  of  earthly  pain,  or  pleasure, 
Of  Glory's  toils.  Ambition's  schemes. 

Of  cherished  love,  or  hoarded  treasure : 
But  to  the  couch  where  Childhood  lies 

A  more  delicious  trance  is  given. 
Lit  up  by  rays  from  Seraph-eyes, 

And  glimpses  of  remembei'ed  heaven ! 


32G 


THE  VICAR. 


Some  years  ago,  ere  Time  and  Taste 

Had  turn'd   our  I'arish   topsy-turv^". 
Wlien   Danu'l  I'ark  was  Darnel  Waste. 

And  roads  as  little  known  as  scurvy, 
The  man,  wlu)  lost  his  way  between 

St.  IVIary's   Hill  and   Sandy  Thicket, 
Was  always  shown  across  the  Green, 

And  guided  to  the  Parson's  wicket. 
327 


THE  VICAR. 

Back  flew  the  bolt  of  lissom  lath ; 

Fair  Margaret,  in  her  tidy  kirtle, 
T>ed  the  lorn  traveller  up  the  path, 

Through  clean-clipt  rows  of  box  and  myrtle ; 
And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 

Upon  the  parlour  steps  collected, 
Wagged  all  their  tails,  and  seemed  to  say, 

"Our  master  knows  you;  you're  expected." 

Up  rose  the  Reverend  Doctor  Brown, 

Up  rose  the  Doctor's  "  winsome  marrow ;" 
The  lady  laid  her  knitting  down, 

Her  husband  clasped  his  pondei'ous  Barrow : 
Whate'er  the  stranger's  caste  or  creed. 

Pundit  or  Papist,   saint  or  sinner, 
He  found  a  stable  for  his  steed. 

And  welcome  for  himself,  and  dinner. 


If,  when  he  reached  his  journey's  end, 

And  warmed  himself  in  court  or  college. 
He  had  not  gained  an  honest  friend. 

And  twenty  curious  scraps  of  knowledge ; — 
If  he  departed  as  he  came. 

With  no  new  light  on  love  or  liquor, — 
Good  sooth,  the  traveller  was  to  blame. 

And  not  the  Vicarage,  or  the  Vicar. 


His  talk  was  like  a  stream  which  runs 

With  rapid  change  from  rocks  to  roses ; 
It  slipped  from  politics  to  puns  ; 

It  passed  from  Mahomet  to  Moses  ; 
Beginning  with  the  laws  which  keep 

The  planets  in  their  radiant  courses. 
And  ending  with  some  precept  deep 

For  dressing  eels,  or  shoeing  horses. 

328 


PRAED. 

He  was  a  shrewd  and  sound  divine. 

Of  loud  Dissent  the  mortal  terror ; 
And  when,  by  dint  of  page  and  line, 

He  'stablished  Truth,  or  started  Error, 
The  Baptist  found  him  far  too  deep ; 

The  Deist  sighed  with  saving  sorrow ; 
And  the  lean  Levite  went   to  sleep. 

And  dreamed  of  tasting  pork  to-morrow. 


His  sermon  never  said  nor  show'd 

That  Earth  is  foul,  that  Heaven  is  gracious, 
Without  refreshment  on  the  road 

From  Jerome,  or  from  Athanasius ; 
And  sure  a  righteous  zeal  inspired 

The  hand  and  heart  that  penn'd  and  plann'd  them, 
For  all  who  understood  admired. 

And  some  who  did  not  understand  them. 


And  he  was  kind,  and  loved  to  sit 

In  the  low  hut,  or  garnished  cottage. 
And  praise  the  farmer's  homely  wit, 

And  share  the  widow's  homelier  pottage  ; 
At  his  approach  complaint  grew  mild. 

And  when  his  hand  unbai'red  the  shutter,' 
Tlie  clammy  lips  of  Fever  smiled 

The  welcome,  which  they  could  not  utter. 


He  always  had  a  tale  for  me 

Of  Julius  Ca'sar,   or  of  Venus : 
From  him  I  learned  the  Rule  of  Three, 

Cat's-cradle,  leap-frog,  and  Qu:^  genus  ; 
I  used  to  singe  his  powder'd  Avig, 

To  steal  the  staff  he  put  such  trust  in  ; 
And  make  the  puppy  dance  a  jig. 

When  he  began  to  quote  Augustin. 

329 


A  CHARADE. 

Alack  the  change !    in  ^ain  I  look 

For  haunts  in  -which  my  boyhood  trifled. 
The  level  lawn,  the  trickling  brook, 

The  trees  I  climbed,  the  beds  I  rifled  : 
The  church  is  larger  than  before ; 

You  reach  it  by  a  carriage  entry ; 
It  holds  three  hundred  people  more ; 

And  pews  are  fitted  up  for  gentry. 

Sit  in  the  Vicar's  seat :  you  '11  hear 

The  doctrine  of  a  gentle  Johnian, 
Whose  hand  is  wdiite,  whose  tone  is  clear, 

Whose  style  is  very  Ciceronian. 
Where  is  the  old  man  laid  "?     Look  down, 

And  construe  on  the  slab  before  you, 
"  Hie  jacet  Gulielmus  Brown, 

Vir  nulla  non  donandus  lauro." 


A   CHARADE. 

(THE  WORD  IS  "CAMPBELL,"  THE  POET.) 

Come  from  my  First,  ay,  come ! 

The  battle-dawn  is  nigh  ; 
And  the  screaming  trump  and  the  thund'ring  (Iniii! 

Are  calling  thee  to  die ! 
Fight  as  thy  fathers  fought. 

Fall  as  thy  fathers  fell! 
Thy  task  is  taught,  thy  shroud  is  wrought ; — 

So — forward  !    and  farewell ' 

330 


PRAED. 

Toll  ye,  my  Second  !    toll ! 

Fling  hio'h  the  flambeaux'  lijiht ; 
And  sing  the  hymn  for  a  parted  soul, 

Beneath  the  silent  night! 
The  wreath  upon  liis  head, 

The  cross  upon  his  breast, 
Let  the  prayer  be  said,  and  the  tear  be  shed : 

So — take  him  to  his  rest ! 

Call  ye,  my  Whole,  ay,  call  ! 

The  lord  of  lute  and  lay  ; 
And  let  him  greet  the  sable  pall 

With  a  noble  song  to-day; 
Go,  call  him  by  his  name ; 

No  fitter  hand  may  crave 
To  light  the  flame  of  a  soldier's  fame, 

On   the   turf  of  a  soldier's  grave. 


331 


HOOD. 
THE  ELM  TREE.— A  DREAM  IN  THE  WOODS. 


"  And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees!" — As  you  Like  it. 


Part  I. 

"TwAS  in  a  shady  Avenue, 
Where  lofty  Elms  abound — 
And  from  a  Tree 
There  came  to  me 
A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
That  sometimes  murmur'd  overhead, 
And  sometimes  underground. 

Amongst  the  leaves  it  seemed  to  sigh, 
Amid  the  boughs  to  moan  ; 

It  mutter'd  in  the  stem,  and  then 
The  roots  took  up  the  tone ; 

As  if  beneath  the  dev^ry  grass 
The  dead  began  to  groan. 

No  breeze  there  was  to  stir  the  leaves; 

No  bolts  that  tempests  launch, 
To  rend  the  trunk   or  rugged  bark ; 

No  gale  to  bend  the  branch  ; 
No  quake  of  earth  to  heave  the  roots, 

That  stood  so  stiff  and  staunch. 
332 


^       f 

/      ^jfa 

,>-  1 

"'-'i  \ 

l/--J 

^-^' 

> 

liut   still   the   sound   was   in   my  car, 

A  sad  and   solemn   sound, 
That   sometimes  murmur'd  overhead, 

333 


THE  ELM  TREE. 

And  sometimes  underground — 
'Twas  in  a  shady  Avenue, 
Where  lofty  Elms  abound. 

From  poplar,  pine,  and  drooping  birch, 
And  fragrant  linden  trees  ; 
No  living  sound 
E'er  hovers  round. 
Unless  the  vagrant  breeze. 
The  music  of  the  merry  bird, 
Or  hum  of  busy  bees. 

But  busy  bees  forsake  the  Elm 
That  bears  no  bloom  aloft — 

The  finch  was  in  the  hawthorn-bush, 
The  blackbird  in   the  croft ; 

And  among  the  firs  the  brooding  dove, 
That  else  might  murmur  soft. 

Yet  still  I  heard  that  solemn  sound, 

And  sad  it  was  to  boot, 
P>om  ev'ry  overhanging  bough. 

And  each  minuter  shoot ; 
From  rugged  trunk  and  mossy  rind. 

And  from  the  twisted  root. 

From  these, — a  melancholy  moan  ; 

From  those, — a  dreary  sigh  ; 
As  if  the  boughs  were  wintry  bare. 

And  wild  winds  sweeping  by, — 
Whereas  the  smallest  fleecy  cloud 

Was  steadfast  in  the  sky. 

No  sign  or  touch  of  stirring  air 

Could  either  sense  observe — 
The  zephyr  had  not  breath  enougii 

334 


HOOD. 

The  thistle-down  to  swerve, 
Or  force  the  tihny  gossamers 
To  take  another  curve. 

In  still  and  silent  slumber  hush'd 

All  Nature  seemed  to  be : 
From  heaven  above,  or  earth  beneath, 

No  whisper  came  to  me — 
Except  the  solemn  sound  and  sad 

From  that  Mysterious  Tree! 

A  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  sound, 

As  is  that  dreamy  roar 
When  distant  billows  boil  and  bound 

Along  a  shingly  shore — 
But  the  ocean  brim  was  far  aloof, 

A  hundred  miles  or  more. 

No  murmur  of  the  gusty  sea. 

No  tumult  of  the  beach, 
However  they  may  foam  and  fret. 

The  bounded  sense  could  reach — 
Methought  the  trees  in  mystic  tongue 

Were  talking  each  to  each!  — 

IMayhap,  rehearsing  ancient  tales 
Of  greenwood  love  or  guilt. 
Of  \vhisper'd  \ows 
Beneath  their  boughs  ; 
Or  blood  obscurely  spilt ; 
Or  of  that  near-hand  Mansion  House 
A  royal  Tudor  built. 

With  wary  eyes,  and  ears  alert. 

As  one  who  walks  afraid, 
1  wander'd  down  the  dappled   ])atli 


THE  ELM  TREE. 

Of  mingled  light  and  shade — 
How  sweetly  gleam'd  that  arch  of  blue 
Beyond  the  green  arcade ! 

How  cheerly  shone  the  glimpse  of  Heav'n 

Beyond  that  verdant  aisle ! 
All  overarch'd  with  lofty  elms, 

That  quench'd  the  light,  the  Avhile, 
As  dim  and  chill 
As  serves  to  fill 
Some  old  Cathedral  pile ! 

And  many  a  gnarled  trunk  was  there. 

That  ages  long  had  stood. 
Till  Time  had  wrought  them  into  shapes 

Like  Pan's  fantastic  brood; 
Or  still  more  foul  and  hideous  forms 

That  Pagans   carve  in  wood ! 

A  crouching  Satyr  lurking  here, 

And  there  a  Goblin  grim — 
As  staring  full  of  demon  life 

As  Gothic  sculptor's  whim ; 
A  marvel  it  had  scarcely  been 

To  hear  a  voice  from  him ! 

Some  whisper  from  that  horrid  mouth, 

Of  strange,  unearthly  tone  ; 
Or  wild  infernal  laugh,  to  chill 

One's  marrow  in  the  bone. 
But  no — it  grins  like  rigid  Death, 

And  silent  as  a  stone ! 

As  silent  as  its  fellows  be, 

For  all  is  mute  with  them, — 
The  branch  that  climbs  the  leafy  roof — 

336 


HOOD. 

The  rough  and  mossy  stem — 

The  crooked  root — 

And  tender  shoot 
Where  hangs  the  dewy  gem. 

One  mystic  Tree  alone  there  is, 
Of  sad  and  solemn  sound — 

That  sometimes  murmurs  overhead, 
And  sometimes  miderground — 

In  all  that  shady  Avenue, 
Where  lofty  Elms  abound. 


Part  II. 

The  Scene  is  changed !     No  green  Af cade, 

No  trees  all  ranged  a-ro\v — 
But  scatter'd  like  a  beaten  host, 

Dispersing  to  and  fro; 
With  here  and  there  a  sylvan  corse. 

That  fell  before   the  foe. 

The  Foe  that  down   in  yonder  dell 

Pursues  his  daily  toil; 
As  witness  many  a  prostrate  trunk, 

Bereft  of  leafy  spoil, 
Hard  by  its  Avooden  stumjt,  whereon 

The  adder  loves  to  coil. 

Alone  he  works — his  ringing  blows 
Have  banish' d  bird  and  beast ; 

The  hind  and  fawn  have  canter'd  off 
A  hundred  yards  at  least  ; 

And  on   the  maple's  lofty  toj), 
The  linnet's  song  has  ceased. 
337 


THE  ELM  TREE. 

No  eye  his  labour  overlooks, 

Or  when  he  takes  his  rest ; 
Except  the  timid  thrush  that  peeps 

Above  her  secret  nest, 
Forbid  by 'love  to  leave  the  young 

Beneath  her  speckled  breast. 

The  Woodman's  heart  is  in  his  work, 

His  axe  is  sharp  and  good : 
With  sturdy  arm  and  steady  aim 
He  smites  the  gaping  wood ; 
From  distant  rocks 
His  lusty  knocks 
Re-echo  many  a  rood. 

Aloft,  upon  his  poising  steel 

The  vivid  sunbeams  glance — 
About  his  head  and  round  his  feet 

The  forest  shadows  dance ; 
And  bounding  from  his  russet  coat 

The  acorn  drops  askance. 

His  face  is  like  a  Druid's  face, 

With  wrinkles  furrow'd  deep, 
And,  tann'd  by  scorching  suns,  as  brown 

As  corn  that's  ripe  to  reap ; 
But  the  hair  on  brow,  and  cheek,  and  chin. 

Is  white  as  \^ool  of  sheep. 

His  frame  is  like  a  giant's  frame  ; 

His  legs  are  long  and  stark ; 
His  arms  like  limbs  of  knotted  yew ; 
His  hands  like  rugged  bark ; 
So  he  felleth  still 
With  right  good  will, 
As  if  to  build  an  ark  ! 
338 


^  _ 


oil !    well  to  him  the  tree  might  breathe 

A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
A  sigh  that  murmur'd  overhead, 

And  groans  from   underground ; 
As  in   that  shady  Avenue, 

Where  lofty  Elms  abound  I 


l>ut   calm  and   mule   the  maple  stands, 
The  plane,  the  ash,  the  fir, 
339 


THE  ELM  TREE. 

The  elm,  the  beech,  the  drooping  birch, 

Without  the  least  demur ; 
And  e'en  the  aspen's  hoary  leaf 

Makes  no  unusual  stir. 

The  pines — those  old  gigantic  pines, 

That  writhe — recalling  soon 
The  famous  human  group  that  writhes 

With  snakes  in  wild  festoon — 
In  ramous  Avrestlings  interlaced, 

A  Forest  Laocoon — 

Like  Titans  of  primeval  girth 

By  tortures  overcome, 
Their  brown  enormous  limbs  they  twine, 

Bedew'd  with  tears  of  gum — 
Fierce  agonies  that  ought  to  yell, 

But,  like  the  marble,  dumb. 

Nay,  yonder  blasted  Elm  that  stands 

So  like  a  man  of  sin, 
Who,  frantic,  flings  his  arms  abroad 

To  feel  the  worm  within — 
For  all  that  gesture,  so  intense. 

It  raiakes  no  sort  of  din ! 

An  universal  silence  reigns 

In  rugged  bark  or  peel. 
Except  that  very  trunk  which  rings 

Beneath  the  biting  steel — 
Meanwhile,  the  Woodman  plies  his  axe 

With  unrelentiner  zeal ! 


o 


No  rustic  song  is  on  his  tongue, 

No  whistle  on  his  lips ; 
But  with  a  quiet  thoughtfulness 

340 


HOOD. 

His  trusty  tool  he  grips, 
And,  stroke  on  stroke,  keeps  hacking  out 
The  bright  and  flying  chips. 

Stroke  after  stroke,  with  frequent  dint 

He  spreads  the  fatal  gash ; 
Till,  lo !    the  remnant  fibres  rend, 

With  harsh  and  sudden  crash, 
And  on  the  dull  resounding  turf 

The  jarring  branches  lash ! 

Oh !   now  the  Forest  Trees  may  sigh, — 

The  ash,  the  poplar  tall, 
The  elm,  the  birch,  the  drooping  beech, 
The  aspens — one  and  all, 
With  solemn  groan 
And  hollow  moan. 
Lament  a  comrade's  fall ! 

A  goodly  Elm,  of  noble  girth, 
Tliat  thrice  the  human  span — 

A^liile  on  their  variegated  course 
The  constant  Seasons  ran, 

Througli  gale,  and  hail,  and  fiery  bolt — 
Had  stood  erect  as  Man. 

But  now,  like  mortal  Man  himself. 
Struck  down  by  hand  of  God, 

Or  heathen  idol  tumliled  prone 
Beneath  th'  Eternal's   nod. 

In  all  its  giant  bulk  and  length 
It  lies  along  the  sod ! — 

The  echo  sleeps:    the  idle  axe, 

A  disregarded  tool, 
Lies  crushing  with   its  passi\e  weight 

341 


THE  ELM  TREE. 

The  toad's  reputed  stool ; 
The  Woodman  wipes  his  dewy  brow 
Within  the  shadows  cool. 

No  zephyr  stirs :    the  ear  may  catch 

The  smallest  insect-hum ; 
But  on  the  disappointed  sense 

No  mystic  whispers  come ; 
No  tone  of  sylvan  sympathy — 

The  Forest  Trees  are  dumb. 

No  leafy  noise,  nor  inward  voice, 
No  sad  and  solemn   sound, 

That  sometimes  murmurs  overhead, 
And  sometimes  underground — 

As  in  that  shady  Avenue, 
Where  lofty  Elms  abound ! 


Part  III. 


The  deed  is  done :    the  Tree  is  low 

That  stood  so  long  and  firm ; 
The  Woodman  and  his  axe  are  gone, 

His  toil  has  found  its  term ; 
And  where  he  Avrought  the  speckled  thrush 

Securely  hunts  the  worm. 

The  cony  from  the  sandy  bank 

Has  run  a  rapid  race. 
Through  thistle,  bent,  and  tangled  fern, 

To  seek  the  open  space ; 
And  on  its  haunches  sits  erect 

To  clean  its  furry  face. 
342 


HOOD. 

The  dappled  fa^vTi  is  close  at  hand, 

The  hind  is  browsing  near, — 
And  on  the  larch's  lowest  bough 
The  ousel  whistles  clear; 
But  checks  the  note 
Within  its  throat, 
As  choked  with  sudden  fear! 

With  sudden  fear  her  wormy  quest 

The  thrush  abruptly  quits  ; 
Through  thistle,  bent,  and  tangled  fern 

The  startled  cony  flits ; 
And  on  the  larch's  lowest  bough 

No  more  the  ousel  sits. 
With  sudden  fear, 
The  dappled  deer 

Effect  a  swift  escape ; 
But  well  might  bolder  creatures  start 

And  fly,  or  stand  agape, 
AVith  rising  hair,  and  curdled  blood, 

To  see  so  grim  a  Shape! 

The  very  sky  turns  pale  above, 
The  earth  grows  dark  beneath  ; 

The  human  Terror  thrills  with  cold, 
And  draws  a  shorter  breath — 

An  universal  panic  owns 

The  dread  approach  of  Death  ! 

With  silent  pace,  as  shadows  come. 

And  dark  as  shadows  be, 
The  grisly  Phantom  takes  his  stand 

Beside  the  fallen  Tree, 
And  scans  it  with  his  gloomy  eyes, 

And  laughs  witli  horrid  glee — 

343 


THE  ELM  TREE. 

A  dreary  laugh  and  desolate, 
Where  mirth  is  void  and  null, 

As  hollow  as  its  echo  sounds 
Within  the  hollow  skull : 

"WTioever  laid  this  Tree  along, 
His  hatchet  was  not  dull ! 

The  human  arm  and  human  tool 

Have  done  their  duty  well ! 
But  after  sound  of  ringing  axe 
Must  sound  the  ringing  knell ; 
When  elm  or  oak 
Have  felt  the  stroke, 
My  turn  it  is  to  fell! 


No  passive  vmregarded  tree, 

A  senseless  thing  of  wood, 
Wherein  the  sluggish  sap  ascends 

To  swell  the  vernal  bud — 
But  conscious,  moving,  breathing  trunks 

That  throb  Avith  living  blood ! 

Ah !   little  recks  the  Royal  mind. 

Within  his  Banquet-Hall, 
Wliile  tapers  shine,  and  music  breathes, 

And  Beauty  leads  the  ball, — 
He  little  recks  the  oaken  plank 

Shall  be  his  palace  wall ! 

Ah!   little  dreams  the  haughty  Peer, 

The  while  his  falcon  flies — 
Or  on  the  blood-bedabbled  turf 

The  antler'd  quarry  dies — 
That  in  his  own  ancestral  Park 

The  narrow  dwelling  lies ! 


344 


HOOD. 

But  lijiughty  Peer  and  mighty  King 
One  doom  shall  overwhelm ! 
The   oaken  cell 
Shall  lodge  him  well 
"Whose  sceptre  ruled  a  realm — 
While  he  who  never  knew  a  home 
Shall  find  it  in  the  Elm ! 


The  tall  abounding  Elm  that  grows 
In  hedgerows  up  and  down, 

In  field  and  forest,  copse  and  park, 
And  in  the  peopled  town, 

With  colonies  of  noisy  rooks 
That  nestle  on  its  crown. 


And  well  th'  abounding  Elm  may  grow 

In  field  and  hedge  so  rife, 
In  forest,  copse,  and  wooded  park, 

And  'mid  the  city's  strife, — 
For  every  hour  that  passes  by 

Shall  end  a  human  life !" 

The  Phantom  ends :    the  shade  is  gone ; 

The  sky  is  clear  and  bright ; 
On  turf,  and  moss,  and  fallen  Tree, 

There  glows  a  ruddy  light ; 
And  bounding  through  the  golden  fern 

The  rabbit  comes  to  bite. 

Tlic  thrush's  mate  beside  her  sits, 

And  pipes  a  merry  lay ; 
Tlie  dove  is  in  the  evergreens ; 

And  on  the  larch's  spray 
The  fly-bird  flutters  up  and  down. 

To  catch  its  tiny  prey. 


345 


THE  ELM  TREE. 

The  gentle  hind  and  dappled  fawn 

Are  coming  up  the  glade ; 
Each  harmless  furr'd  and  feather'd  thing 

Is  glad,  and  not  afraid — 
But  on  my  sadden'd  spirit  still 

The  Shadow  leaves  a  shade : 

A  secret,  vague,  prophetic  gloom, 

As  though  by  certain  mark 
I  knew  the  fore -appointed  Tree, 

Within  whose  rugged  bark 
This  warm  and  living  frame  shall  find 

Its  narrow  house  and  dark. 

That  mystic  Tree  which  breathed  to  me 

A  sad  and  solemn  sound. 
That  sometimes  murmur' d  overhead, 

And  sometimes  underground — 
Within  that  shady  Avenue, 

Where  lofty  Elms  abound. 


846 


PRINGLE. 


AFAR  IN   THE   DESERT. 


Afar  in  the  Desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  tlie  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side : 
When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o'ercast, 
And,  sick  of  the  Present,  I  cling  to  the  Past; 
When  the  eye  is  suffused  Avith  regret fvd  tears, 
From  tlie  fond  recollections  of  former  years ; 

347 


AFAR  IN  THE  DESERT. 

And  shadows  of  things  that  have  long  since  fled 

Flit  over  the  brain  like  the  ghosts  of  the  dead; 

And  my  Native  Land,  whose  magical  name 

Thrills  to  my  heart  like  electric  flame; 

The  home  of  my  childhood ;   the  haunts  of  my  prime ; 

All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rapturous  time, 

When  the  feelings  were  young,  and  the  world  was  new, 

Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Eden  unfolding  to  view; — 

All — all  now  forsaken,  forgotten,  foregone! 

And  I,  a  lone  exile,  remembered  of  none ; 

My  high  aims  abandoned,  my  good  acts  undone, 

Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun, — 

With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no  stranger  may  scan, 

I  fly  to  the  Desert,  afar  from  man! 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I  love  to  ride. 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side: 

When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome  life. 

With  its  scenes  of  oppression,  corruption,  and  strife, — 

The  proud  man's  frown,  and  the  base  man's  fear. 

The  scorner's  laugh,  and  the  sufferer's  tear, — 

And  malice,  and  meanness,  and  falsehood,  and  folly. 

Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  melancholy ; 

When  my  bosom  is  full,  and  my  thoughts  are  high, 

And  my  soul  is  sick  Avith  the  bondman's  sigh; 

Oh !   then  there  is  freedom,  and  joy,  and  pride. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  alone  to  ride! 

There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the,  champing  steed, 

And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle's  speed. 

With  the  death-fraught  firelock  in  my  hand, — 

The  only  law  of  the  Desert  Land. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I  love  to  ride. 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side ; 
Away,  away  from  the  dwellings   of  men. 
By  the  wild-deer's  haunt,  by  the  buffalo's  glen ; 

348 


PRINGLE. 

By  valleys  remote,  where  the  Oribi  plays, 

Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the  hartebeest  graze. 

And  the  kudu  and  eland  unhunted  recline 

By  the  skirts  of  grey  forests  o'erhung  with  wild  vine 

Where  the  elephant  browses   at  peace  in  his  Avood. 

And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in  the  flood. 

And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 

In  the  fen  where  the  wild-ass  is  drmkina;  his  fill. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side ; 
O'er  the  brown  Karroo,  where  the  bleating  cry 
Of  the  springbok's  fawii  sounds  plaintively; 
And  the  timorous  quagga's  shrill  Avhistling  neigh 
Is  heard  by  the  fountain  at  twilight  ^"ey ; 
Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane. 
With  wild  hoof  scouring  the  desolate  plain ; 
And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  like  a  horseman  who  travels  in  haste, 
Hieing  away  to  the  home  of  her  rest. 
Where  she  and  her  mate  have  scoop'd  their  nest, 
Far  hid  from  the  pitiless  plunderer's  view 
In  the  pathless  depths  of  the  parch'd  Karroo. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I  love  to  ride. 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side ; 

Away,  away  in   the  Wilderness  vast 

Where  the  White  Man's  foot  hath  never  pass'd. 

And  the  quiver'd  Corjuma  or  Bechuan 

Hath  rarely  cross'd  with  his  roving  clan  : 

A  region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear. 

Which  ]Man  hath  abandon'd  from  famine  and  fear ; 

Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  mhabit  alone, 

AVilli   the   twilight  bat  from   the  yawning  stone; 

AMiere  grass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes  root, 

Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot ; 

34:9 


•■AFAR  m  TPIE  DESERT. 

And  the  bitter  melon,  for  food  and  drink, 
Is  the  pilgrim's  fare  by  the  salt  lake's  brink : 
A  region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides. 
Nor  rippling  brook  Avith  osiered  sides ; 
Where  sedgy  pool,  nor  bubbling  fount, 
Nor  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount. 
Appears,  to  refresh  the  aching  eye ; 
But  the  barren  earth  and  the  burning  sky, 
And  the  blank  horizon,  round  and  round, 
Spread — void  of  living  sight  or  sound. 

And  here,  while  the  night  winds  round  me  sigh, 
And  the   stars  burn  bright  in  the  midnight  sky; 
As  I  sit  apart  by  the  desert  stone. 
Like  Elijah  at  Hoi'eb's  cave  alone ; 
"  A  still  small  voice"  comes  through  the  wild 
(Like  a  father  consoling  his  fretful  child), 
Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear, 
Saying — "Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near!"' 


350 


LANDOE. 


THE  WATER-NYMPH  APPEARING  TO  THE  SHEPHERD. 


'Tavas  evening,  tliough  not  sunset,  and  tlie  tide, 
Level  with  these  green  meadows,  scem'd  yet  higher 

351 


THE  WATER-NYMPH  APPEARING  TO  THE  SHEPHERD. 

•    'Twas  pleasant;   and  I  loosen'd  from  my  neck 
The  pipe  you  gave  me,  and  began  to  play. 

Oh  that  I  ne'er  had  learnt  the  tuneful  art!  J 

It  always  brings  us  enemies  or  love. 

Well,  I  was   playing,  when  above  the  waves  m 

Some  swimmer's  head  methought  I  saw  ascend;  " 

I,  sitting  still,  survey'd  it,  with  my  pipe 
Awkwardly  held  before  my  lips  half-closed, — 
Gebir!   it  was  a  Nymph!    a  Nymph  divine! 
I  cannot  wait  describing  how  she  came, 
How  I  was  sitting,  how  she  first  assum'd 
The  sailor;   of  what  happen'd  there  remains 

Enough  to   say,  and  too  much  to  forget. 

The  sweet  deceiver  stept  upon  this  bank 

Before  I  was  aware;   for  with  surprise 

Moments  fly  rapid  as  with  love  itself. 

Stooping  to  tune  afresh  the  hoarsen'd  reed, 

I  heard  a  rustling,  and  whei'e  that  arose 

My  glance  Jlrst  lighted  on  her  nimble  feet. 

Her  feet  resembled  those  long  shells  explored 

By  him  who  to  befriend  his  steed's  dim  sight 

Would  blow  the  pungent  powder  in  the  eye. 

EA^en  her  attire 
Was  not  of  wonted  woof  nor  vulgar  art ; 
Her  mantle  show'd  the  yelloAv  samphire-pod. 
Her  girdle  the  dove-colour'd  wave  serene. 
"  Shepherd,"  said  she,  "  and  will  you  wrestle  now, 
And  with  the  sailor's  hardier  race  engage?" 
I  was  rejoiced  to  hear  it,  and  contrived 
How  to  keep  up  contention ;   could  I  fail. 
By  pressing  not  too  strongly,  yet  to  press? 
"Wliether  a  shepherd,  as  indeed  you  seem. 
Or  whether  of  the  hardier  race  you  boast, 
I  am  not  daunted;  no,  I  will  engage!" 
"But  first,"  said  she,  "what  wager  will  you  lay?" 
"A  sheep,"  I  answered;    "add  whate'er  you  will." 

352 


LANDOR. 

"  I  cannot,"   she  replied,    "  make   that  return  ; 
Our  hided  vessels  in  their  pitchy  round 
Seldom,  unless  from  rapine,  hold  a  sheep. 
But  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  jiearly  hue 
Within,  and  they  that  lustre  have  imbibed 
In  the  sun's  palace-porch,  where  when  unyoked 
His  chariot-wheel  stands  midway  in  the  wave : 
Shake  one  and  it  awakens  ;    then  apply 
Its  polisht  lips  to  your  attentive  ear. 
And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes. 
And  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there. 
And  I  have  others  given  me  by  the  nymphs, 
Of  sweeter  sound  than  any  pipe  you  have. 
But  we,  by  Neptune  !    for  no  pipe  contend, — 
This  time  a  sheep  I  win,  a  pipe  the  next." 


RODERIGO  AND  JULIAN. 

THE  REPROACH  OF  THE  BEREAVED. 

Rod.   Julian,  thy  gloomy  soul  still  meditates — 
J'lainly  I  see  it — death   to  me  :    jiursue 
The  dictates  of  thy  leaders  ;    let  revenge 
Have  its  full  sway ;    let  Barbary  prevail, 
And  the  pure  creed  her  elders  have  embraced : 
Those  placid  sages  hold  assassination 
A  most  coiu|i(  iidious  supplement  to  law. 

Jul.   Thou   knowcst  not  the  one,  nor  I  the  other. 
Torn   hast   thou  from  me  all   my  soul  held  dear; 
Her  form,  her  voice,  all  hast   thou  banisht  Ironi    me, 

353  z 


RODERIGO  AND  JULIAN. 

Nor  dare  I,  wretched  as  I  am !   recal 

Those  solaces  of  every  grief  erewhile. 

I  stand  abased  before  insulting  crime, 

I  falter  like  a  ci"iminal  myself; 

The  hand  that  hurl'd  thy  chariot  o'er  its  wheels, 

That  held  thy  steeds  erect  and  motionless 

As  molten  statues  on  some  palace-gate, 

Shakes  as  with  palsied  age  before  thee  now. 

Gone  is  the  treasure  of  my  heart  for  ever, 

Without  a  father,  mother,  friend,  or  name. 

Daughter  of  Julian  ! — Such  was  her  delight — 

Such  was  mine  too!    what  pride  more  innocent, 

Wliat  surely  less  deserving  pangs  like  these. 

Than  springs  from  filial  and  parental  love ! 

Debarr'd  from  every  hope  that  issues  forth 

To  meet  the  balmy  breath  of  early,  life, 

Her   sadden'd  days,  all  cold  and  colourless, 

Will  stretch  before  her  their  whole  weary  length 

Amid  the  sameness  of  obscurity. 

She  wanted  not  seclusion  to  unveil 

Her  thoughts  to  heaven,  cloister,  nor  midnight  bell ; 

She  found  it  in  all  places,  at  all  hours  : 

While  to  assuage  my  labours,  she  indulged 

A  playfulness  that  shunn'd  a  mother's  eye, 

Still  to  avert  my  perils  there  arose 

A  piety  that  even  from  me  retired. 


354 


JOSEPH  BLANCO  WHITE. 


NIGHT  AND  DEATH. 


Mysterious  night !   when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee  from  report  Divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 

This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue? 

Yet,  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 

Hesperus,  ^^■ith  the  host  of  heaven,  came. 

And  lo !   creation  widen'd  in  man's  view. 

AVlio  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
"Within  thy  beams,  O  sun  !    or  who  could  find, 

Whilst  fiy,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind  ? 

Why  do  we,  then,  shun  death  with  anxious  strife? 

If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  life? 


35; 


KEBLE. 


"Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field,  how  they  grow.' 


SwEKT  nurslings  of  the  vernal  skies, 
Bath'd  in  soft  airs,  and  fed  with  dew, 
356 


KEBLE. 

^Vhat  more  than  magic  in  you  lies. 

To  fill  the  heart's  fond  view? 
In  childhood's  sports,   companions  gay, 
In  sorrow,  on  Lite's  downward  way. 
How  soothing !   in  our  last  decay, 
Memorials  prompt  and  true. 

Relics  ye  are  of  Eden's  bowers, 
As  pure,  as  fragrant,  and  as  fair. 

As  when  ye  crown'd  the  sunshine  hours 
Of  hapjjy  wanderers  there. 

Fall'n  all  beside — the  world  of  life, 

How  is  it  stain'd  with  fear  and  strife  ! 

In  Reason's  world  what  storms  are  rife. 
What  passions  range  and  glare ! 

But  cheerful  and  unchang'd  the  while 
Your  first  and  perfect  form  ye  show, 

The  same  that  won  Eve's  matron  smile 
In   the  world's  opening  glow. 

The  stars  of  heaven  a  course  are  taught 

Too  high  above  our  human  thought; 

Ye  may  be  found  if  ye  are  sought, 
And  as  we  gaze,  we  know. 

Y''e  dwell  beside  our  paths  and  homes, 

Our  paths  of  sin,  our  homes  of  sorrow 
And  guilty  man,  where'er  he  roams, 
Your  innocent  mirth  may  borrow. 
The  birds  of  air  before  us  fleet, 
They  cannot  l)rook  our  shame   to  meet  — 
IJut  we  may  taste  your  solace  sweet. 
And  come  again  to-morrow. 

Ye  feai'lcss  in  your  nests   abide —  • 

Nor  may  we  scorn,  too  proudly  ^^■ise, 
357 


CHILDREN'S  THANKFULNESS.  ^ 

Your  silent  lessons,  undescried 

By  all  but  lowly  eyes : 
For  ye  could  draw  tli'  admiring  gaze 
Of  Him  who  Avorlds  and  hearts  surveys : 
Your  order  wild,  your  fragrant  maze, 

He  taught  us  how  to  prize. 

Ye  felt  your  Maker's  smile  that  hour, 

As  when  He  paused  and  o^vn'd  you  good  ; 

His  blessing  on  earth's  primal  bower, 
Ye  felt  it  all  renew' d. 

What  care  ye  now,  if  wintei''s  storm 

Sweep  ruthless  o'er  each  silken  form? 

Christ's  blessing  at  your  heart  is  warm, — 
Ye  fear  no  vexing  mood. 

Alas !    of  thousand  bosoms  kind, 
That  daily  court  you  and  caress, 

How  few  the  happy  secret  find 
Of  your  calm  loveliness ! 

"  Live  for  to-day !    to-morrow's  light 

To-morrow's  cares  shall  bring  to  sight ; 

Go  sleep,  like  closing  flowers,  at  night, 
And  Heaven  thy  morn  will  bless." 


CHILDREN'S  THANKFULNESS. 

"A  joj-ful  and  a  pleasant  thing  it  is  to  be  thankful. 

Why  so   stately,  maiden  fair, 

Rising  in  thy  nurse's  arms 
With  that  condescending  air ; 

Gathering  up  thy  queenly  charms, 
358 


KEBLE. 


Like  some  gorgeous  Indian  bird, 


Which,  wlien  at  eve  tlie  balmy  copse  is  stirr'd, 

Tui'ns  the  glowing  neck  to  chide 
Th'  irreverent  foot-fall,  then  makes  haste  to  hide 

Again  its  lustre  deep 
Under  the  purple  wing,  best  home  of  downy  sleep  '. 

Not  as  yet  she  comprehends 

How  the  tongues  of  men  reprove, 

But  a  spirit  o'er  her  bends, 

Train'd  in  heaven  to  courteous  love, 

And  with  wondering  gi-ave  rebuke 
Tempers,  to-day,  shy  tone  and  bashful  look. — 

Graceless  one,  'tis  all  of  thee. 
Who  for  her  maiden  bounty,  full  and  free. 

The  violet  from  her  gay 
And  guileless  bosom,  didst  no  word  of  thanks  repay. 

Therefore,  lo,  she  opens  w'ide 

Both  her  blue  and  wistful  eyes, — 

Breathes  her  grateful  chant,  to  chide 
Our  too  tardy  sympathies. 

Little  babes  and  angels  brioht — 
They  muse,  be  sure,  and  wonder,  day  and  night. 

How  th'  all-holy  Hand  should  give. 
The  sinner's  hand  in   thanklessness  receive. 

We  see  it  and  we  hear. 
But  wonder  not:    for  why?    we  feel  it  all  too  near. 

\ 
Not  in  vain,  when  feasts  are  spread. 

To  the  youngest  at  the  board 
Call  we  to  incline  the  head. 

And  pronounce  the  solemn  word. 
Not  in  vain   they  clasp  and  raise 
The  soft,  pure  fingers  in   unconscious  praise. — 
Taught,  perchance,  by  ])ictur'd  wall 

359 


CHILDREN'S  THANKFULNESS. 

How  little  ones  before  the  Lord  may  fall. 

How  to  His  lov'd  caress 
Reach  out  the  restless  arm,  and  near  and  nearer  press. 

Children  in  their  joyous  ranks, 
As  you  pace  the  village  street, 

Fill  the  air  with  smiles  and  thanks 
If  but  once  one  babe  you  greet. 

Never  Aveary,  never  dim. 
From  thrones  seraphic  mounts  th'  eternal  hymn. 

Babes  arid  angels  grudge  no  praise : — 
But  elder  souls,  to  whom  His  saving  ways 

Are  open,  fearless  take 
Their  portion,  hear  the  Grace,  and  no  meek  answer  make. 

Save  our  blessings,  Master,  save 
From  the  blight  of  thankless  eye  : 

Teach  us  for  all  joys  to  crave 
Benediction  pure  and  high. 

Own  them  given,  endure  them  gone. 
Shrink  from  their  hardening  touch,  yet  prize  them  won  : 

Pi'ize  them  as  rich  odours,  meet 
For  Love  to  lavish  on  His  sacred  feet ;  — 

Prize  them  as  sparkles  bright 
Of  heavenly  dew,  from  yon  o'erflowing  well  of  light. 


360 


MILMAN. 

THE  HEBREW  WEDDING. 

To  the  sound  of  timbrels  sweet, 
Moving  slow  our  solemn  feet, 
We  have  borne  thee  on  the  road, 
To  the  virgin's  blest  abode ; 
With  thy  yellow  torches  gleaming, 
And  thy  scarlet  mantle  streaming. 
And  the  canopy  above 
Swaying  as  we  slowly  move. 

Thou  hast  left  the  joyous  feast, 
And  the  mirth  and  wine  have  ceast 
And  now  we  set  thee  dowii  before 
The  jealously-unclosing  door ; 
That  the  favour'd  youth  admits, 
Where  the  veiled  virgin  sits 
In  the  bliss  of  maiden  fear, 
Waiting  our  soft  tread  to  hear, 
And  the  music's  brisker  din, 
At  the  bridegroom's  entering  in : 
Entering  in  a  welcome  guest 
To  the  chamber  of  his  rest. 

Chorus  of  Maidens. 

Now  the  jocund  song  is  thine, 
Bride  of  David's  kingly  line ; 
How  thy  dove-like  bosom  trembleth, 
And  thy  shrouded  eye  resembleth 
Violets,  when  the  dews  of  eve 
A  moist  and  tremulous  glitter  leave 
361 


On  the  bashful  sealed  lid ! 
Close  within  the  bride-veil  hid, 
Motionless  thou  sitt'st  and  muto  ; 
Save  that  at  the  soft  salute 
Of  each  entering  maiden  friend, 
Thou  dost  rise  and  softly  bend. 

Hark  !    a  brisker,  merrier  glee  ! 
The  door  unfolds, — 'tis  he!    'tis  he! 
Thus  we  lift  our  lamps  to  meet  him. 
Thus  we  touch  our  lutes  to  greet  him. 
Thou  shalt  give  a  fonder  meeting, 
Thou  shalt  give  a  tenderer  greeting. 
362 


MILMAN. 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  JUDGE. 

Even  thus,  amid   thy  pride  and  luxury, 

O  Earth !    shall  that  last  coming  burst  on  thee, 

That  secret  coming  of  the  Son  of  Man. 
When  all  the  cherub-tlironing  clouds  shall  shine. 
Irradiate  with  his  bright  advancing  sign : 

When  that  Great  Husbandman  shall  wave  his  i'an, 
Sweeping,  like  chaff,  thy  wealth  and  pomp  away : 
Still,  to  the  noontide  of  that  nightless  day, 

Shalt  thou  thy  wonted  dissolute  course  maintain. 
Along  the  busy  mart  and  crowded  street, 
The  buyer  and  the  seller  still  shall  meet, 

And  marriage-feasts  begin  their  jocund  strain : 
Still  to  the  pouring  out  the  Cup  of  Woe; 
Till  Earth,  a  drunkard,  reeling  to  and  fro. 
And  mountains  molten  by  his  burning  feet. 
And  Heaven  his  presence  own,  all  red  with  furnace  heal. 

The  hundred-gated  Cities  then, 

The  Towers  and  Temples,  nanfd  of  men 
Eternal,  and  the  Thrones  of  Kings ; 

The  gilded  summer  Palaces, 

The  courtly  bowers  of  love  and  ease, 

Wlicre  still  the  Bird  of  Pleasure  sings : — 

Ask  ye  the  destiny  of  them? 

Go,  gaze  on  fallen  Jerusalem ! 
Yea,  mightier  names  are  in  the  fatal  roll, 

'Gainst  earth  and  heaven   God's  standard  is  unfiii-l'»l  ; 
The  skies  are  shrivell'd  like  a  burning  scroll. 

And  the  vast  conunon  doom  ensepulchres  the  world. 

Oh !    who  shall  then  survive  ? 
Oh !    who  shall  stand  and  live  ? 

363 


THE  COIVUNG  OF  THE  JUDGE. 

AVhen  all  that  hath  been  is  no  more : 

AVhen  for  the  round  earth  hung  in  air, 

With  all  its  constellations  fair 
In  the  sky's  azure  canopy ; 
When  for  the  breathing  Earth,  and  sparkling  Sea, 

Is  but  a  fiery  deluge  without  shore, 
Heaving  along  the  abyss  profound  and  dark, 
A  fiery  deluge,  and  without  an  Akk. 

Lord  of  all  power,  when  thou  art  there  alone 
On  thy  eternal  fiery-wheeled  throne. 

That  in  its  high  meridian  noon 

Needs  not  the  perish'd  sun  nor  moon : 
When  thou  art  thei'e  in  thy  presiding  state, 

Wide-sceptred  Monarch  o'er  the  realm  of  doom ; 

When  from  the  sea-depths,  from  earth's  darkest  womb. 
The  dead  of  all  the  ages  round  thee  wait : 
And  when  the  tribes  of  wickedness  are  strown 

Like  forest-leaves  in  th'  autumn  of  thine  ire :       ' 
Faithful  and  True !    thou  still  wilt  save  thine  own ! 

The  Saints  shall  dwell  within  th'  unharming  fire : 
Each  white  robe  spotless,  blooming  every  jialni. 

Even  safe  as  we  by  this  still  fountain's  side. 

So  shall  the  Church,  thy  bright  and  mystic  Bride, 
Sit  on   the  stormy  gulf  a  halcyon  bird  of  calm. 

Yes,  'mid  yon  angry  and  destroying  signs, 

O'er  us  the  rainbow  of  thy  mercy  shines ; 

We  hail,  we  bless  the  covenant  of  its  beam, 
Almighty  to  avenge,  Almightiest  to  redeem. 


3G4 


LEIGH  HUNT. 

AN    ITALIAN    GARDEN. 

A  xoRLE  range  it  was,  of  many  a  rood, 

Wall'd  round  with  trees,  and  ending  in  a  wood: 

Indeed,  the  whole  was  leafy;    and  it  had 

A  winding  stream  about  it,  clear  and  glad, 

That  danced  from  shade  to  shade,  and  on  its  way 

Seem'd  smiling  with  delight  to  feel  the  day. 

There  was  the  pouting  rose,  both  red  and  white. 

The  flamy  heart's-ease,  flush'd  with  purple  light, 

Blush-hiding  strawberry,  sunny-colored  box, 

Hyacinth,  handsome  with  his  clustering  locks. 

The  lady  lily,  looking  gentlj-  down. 

Pure  lavender,  to  lay  in  bridal-gown, 

The  daisy,  lovely  on  both  sides, — in  short, 

All  the  sweet  cups  to  which  the  bees  resort, 

With  plots  of  grass,  and  perfum'd  Avalks  between 

Of  sweetbrier,  honeysuckle,  and  jessamine, 

With  orange,  whose  Avarm  leaves  so  finely  suit. 

And  look  as  if  they  shade  a  golden  fruit ; 

And  'midst  the  flowers,  turf'd  round  beneath  a  sliade 

Of  circling  pines,  a  babbling  fountain  play'd. 

And  'twixt  their  shafts  you  saw  the  water  bright, 

AVliich   through   the  darksome  tops  glinnner'd  with  showering 

light. 
So  now  you  Avalk'd  Ix'side  an  odorous  bed 
Of  gorgeous  hues,  purple,  and  gold,  and  red ; 
And  now  turn'd  off  into  a  leafy  walk, 
Close  and  continuous,  fit  for  lovers'   talk  ; 

365 


And  now  pursued  the  stream,  and  as  you  trod 
Onward  and  onward  o'er  the  velvet  sod, 
Felt  on  your  face  an  air,  watery  and  sweet, 
And  a  new  sense  in  your  soft-lighting  feet ; 

366 


LEIGH  HUNT. 

And  then,  perhaps,  you  enter'd  upon  shade?, 

Pillow'd  with  dells  and  uplands  'twixt  the  glades, 

Through  which  the  distant  palace,  now  and  then, 

Look'd  lordly  forth  with  many-window' d  ken, — 

A  land  of  trees,  which  reaching  round  about, 

In  shady  blessing  stretch'd  their  old  arms  out. 

With  spots  of  sunny  opening,  and  with  nooks 

To  lie  and  read  in,  sloping  into  brooks, 

Where  at  her  drink  you  startled  the  slim  deer, 

Ketreating  lightly  with  a  lovely  fear. 

And  all  about,  tlie  birds  kept  leafy  house, 

And  sung  and  darted  in  and  out  the  boughs ; 

And  all  about,  a  lovely  sky  of  blue 

Clearly  Avas  felt,  or  down  the  leaves  laugh'd  througli ; 

And  here  and  there,  in  every  part,  were  seats. 

Some  in  the  open  walks,  some  in  retreats 

With  bowering  leaves  o'erhead,  to  which  the  eye 

Look'd  up  half  sweetly  and  half  awfully, — 

Places  of  nestling  green,  for  poets  made, 

Where,  ^vhen  the  sunshine  struck  a  yellow  shade, 

The  rugged  trunks,  to  inward-peeping  sight, 

Throng'd  in  dark  pillars  up  the  gold  green  light. 

But  'twixt  the  wood  and  flowery  walks,  ha.li'-wa\', 
And  form'd  of  both,  the  loveliest  portion  lay, 
A  spot  that  struck  you  like  enchanted  ground  : 
It  was  a  shallow  dell,  set  in  a  mound 
Of  sloping  shrubs,  that  mounted  by  degrees — 
The  birch  and  poplar  mixed  with  heavier  trees ; 
Down  by  whose  roots,  descending  darkly  still, 
(You  saw  it  not,  but  heard)  there  gush'd  a  rill, 
Whose  low  sweet  talking  sccm'd  as  if  it  said 
Something  eternal  to  that  happy  shade. 
The  ground  within  was  lawn,   with  plots  of  flowers 
Ileap'd   toAvards  the  centre,  and  with  citron  bowers ; 
And   ill    the   midst    of  all,  cliister'd    with   bay 
And  myrtle,  and  just  glancing  to  the  day, 

JJfi? 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 

Lurk\l  a  pavilion, — a  delicious  sight, — 

Small,  marble,  well-proportion'd,  mellowy  white, 

With  yellow  vine-leaves  sprinkled, — but  no  morc,- 

And  a  young  orange  either  side  the  door. 

The  door  was  to  the  wood,  forward  and  square ; 

The  rest  was  domed  at  top,  and  circular ; 

And  through  the  dome  the  only  light  came  in. 

Tinged,  as  it  enter'd,  with  the  vine-leaves  thin. 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase!) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room. 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  Angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold: — 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  Presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
''AVhat  Avritest  thou?" — The  Vision  rais'd  its  head, 
And  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answer'd,  "The  names  of  those  avIio  love  the  Lord." 
"  And  is  mine  one  ?"  said  Abou.     "  Nay,  not  so," 
Keplied  the  Angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low, 
But  cheerly  still ;    and  said,  "  I  pray  thee  then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  Angel  wrote,  and  vanish'd.      The  next  night 

It  came  again  with  a  great  wakening  light, 

And  show'd  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  bless'd, 

And,  lo !    l>en  Adhcm's  name  led  all   the  rest. 


368 


;^ 


CROLY. 


THE    ALHAMBRA. 


Palace  of  Beauty!    where  the  Moorish  Lord, 
King  of  the  bow,  the  bridle,  and  the  sword. 
Sat  like  a  Genie  in  the  diamond's  blaze. 
Oh!    to  have  seen  thee  in  the  ancient  days, 
When  at  thy  morning  gates  the  coursers  stood, 
The  "  thousand"   milk-white,  Yemen's  fiery  blood. 
In  pearl  and  ruby  harness'd  for  the  King; 
And  through  thy  portals  pour'd  the  gorgeous  flood 
Of  Jewell' d  Sheik  and  Emir,  hastening, 
Before  the  sky  the  da-\vning  purple  show'd, 
Their  turbans  at  the  Caliph's  feet  to  fling. 
Lovely  thy  morn — thy  evening  lovelier  still. 
When  at  the  Avaking  of  the  first  blue  star 
That  trembled  on  the  Atalaya  hill, 
The  splendours  of  the  trumpet's  voice  arose, 

369  A  A 


THE  ALHAMBRA. 

Brilliant  and  bold,  and  yet  no  sound  of  war ; 

But  summoning  thy  beauty  from  repose, 

The  shaded  slumber  of  the  burning  noon. 

Then  in  the  slant  sun  all  thy  fountains  shone, 

Shooting  the  sparkling  column  from  the  vase 

Of  crystal  cool,  and  falling  in  a  haze 

Of  rainbow  hues  on  floors  of  porphyry, 

And  the  rich  bordering  beds  of  every  bloom 

That  breathes  to  African  or  Indian  sky, 

Carnation,  tuberose,  thick  anemone  ; 

Then  was  the  harping  of  the  minstrels  heard, 

In  the  deep  arbours,  or  the  regal  hall, 

Hushing  the  tumult  of  the  festival, 

When  the  pale  bard  his  kindling  eye-ball  rearM, 

And  told  of  Eastern  glories,  silken  hosts, 

Tower'd  elephants,  and  chiefs  in  tojmz  arm'd ; 

Or  of  the  myriads  from  the  cloudy  coasts 

Of  the  far  Western  sea, — the  sons  of  blood, 

The  iron  men  of  tournament  and  feud, 

That  round  the  bulwarks  of  their  father  swarm'd, 

Doom'd  by  the  Moslem  scimitar  to  fall. 

Till  the  Red  Cross  was  hurl'd  from  Salem's  wall. 

Wliere  are  thy  pomps,  Alhambra,  earthly  sun, 
That  had  no  rival,  and  no  second  ? — gone  ! 
Thy  glory  down  the  arch  of  time  has  roll'd. 
Like  the  great  day-star  to  the  ocean  dim. 
The  billows  of  the  ages  o'er  thee  swim. 
Gloomy  and  fathomless ;    thy  tale  is  told. 
Where  is  thy  horn  of  battle  ?    that,  but  blown. 
Brought  every  chief  of  Afric  from  his  throne ; 
Brought  every  spear  of  Afric  from   the  wall; 
Brought  every  chai-ger  barbed  from  the  stall, 
Till  all  its  tribes  sat  mounted  on  the  shore ; 
Waiting  the  waving  of  thy  torch  to  pour 
The  li\ing  deluge  on  the  fields  of  Spain. 
Queen  of  Earth's  loveliness,  there  Avas  a  stain 

370 


CROLY. 


Upon  thy  brow — the  stain  of  guilt  and  gore : 

Thy  course  was  bright,  bold,  treach'rous — and  'tis  o'er. 

The  spear  and  diadem  are  from  thee  gone ; 

Silence  is  now  sole  monarch  of  thy  throne ! 


FLORA. 


The  flowers  are  Nature's  jewels,  with  whose  wealth 
She  decks  her  Summer  beauty;    Primrose  sweet, 
With  blossoms  of  pure  gold ;    enchanting  Rose, 
That,  like  a  virgin  queen,  salutes  the  Sun, 
Dew-diadem'd ;    the  perfumed  Pink,  that  studs 
The  earth  with  clustering  ruby ;   Hyacinth, 
The  hue  of  Venus'  tresses ;    Myrtle  green, 
That  maidens  think  a  charm  for  constant  love, 
And  give  night-kisses  to  it,  and  so  dream ; 
Fair  Lily !    woman's  emblem,  and  oft  twined 
Round  bosoms,  where  its  silver  is  unseen. 
Such  is  their  whiteness ;    downcast  Violet, 
Turning  away  its  sweet  head  from  the  wind. 
As  she  her  delicate  and  startled  ear 
From  passion's  tale ! 


371 


FERGUSON. 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 


Come,  see  the  Dolpliin's  Anchor  forged;   'tis  at  a  white  heat  now: 
The  bellows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased;    though  on  the  forge's  brow, 
The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  through  the  sable  mound; 
And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths  ranking  round, 
All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad  hands  only  bare; 
Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work  the  windlass  there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle  chains,  the  black  mound  heaves  below ; 

And  i-ed  and  deep,  a  hundred  veins  burst  out  at  every  throe : 

It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright — O,  Vulcan,  what  a  glow! 

'Tis  blinding  white,  'tis  blasting  bright;    the  high  sun  shines  not  so! 

The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such  fiery  fearful  show; 

The  roof-ribs  swarth,  the  candent  hearth,  the  ruddy  lurid  row 

Of  smiths,  that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men  before  the  foe; 

As,  quivering  through  his  fleece  of  flame,  the  sailing  monster,  slow 

Sinks  on  the  anvil — all  about  the  faces  fiery  grow — 

"  Hurrah!"  they  shout,  "leap  out — leap  out;"  bang,  bang,  the  sledges  go: 

Hurrah !    the  jetted  lightnings  are  hissing  high  and  low ; 

A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  squashing  blow; 

The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail ;    the  rattling  cinders  strow 

The  ground  around;    at  every  bound  the  sweltering  fountains  flow; 

And  thick  and  loud  the  swinking  crowd,  at  every  stroke,  pant  "hoi" 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters;   leap  out  and  lay  on  load! 
Let's  forge  a  goodly  anchor;    a  Bower,  thick  and  broad: 
For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  blow  I  bode ; 
And  I  see  the  good  ship  riding  all  in  a  perilous  road, 

372 


FERGUSON. 

The  low  reef  rolling  on  her  lee ;    the  roll  of  ocean  poured 

From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea;    the  mainmast  by  the  board; 

The  bulwarks  down ;    the  rudder  gone ;    the  boats  stove  at  the  chains ; 

But  courage  still,  brave  mariners — the  Bower  yet  remains, 

And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns  save  when  ye  pitch  sky  high, 

Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  said,  "Fear  nothing — here  am  I!" 

Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order;    let  foot  and  hand  keep  time, 
-  Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than  any  steeple's  chime ; 
But  while  ye  swing  your  sledges,  sing;    and  let  the  burden  be, 
The  anchor  is  the  anvil  king,  and  royal  craftsmen  we ! 
Strike  in,  strike  in — the  sparks  begin  to  dull  their  rustling  red; 
Our  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our  work  will  soon  be  sped : 
Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of  fiery  rich  array 
For  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or  an  oozy  couch  of  clay ; 
Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of  merry  craftsmen  here, 
For  the  yeo-heave-o',  and  the  heave-away,  and  the  sighing  seaman's  cheer ; 
When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go,  far,  far  from  love  and  home ; 
And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a  roAv,  wail  o'er  the  ocean  foam. 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom  he  darkens  down  at  last; 
A  shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong,  as  e'er  from  cat  was  cast. — 
O  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst  life  like  me, 
AVhat  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath  the  deep  green  sea' 
O  deep  sea-diver,  who  might  then  behold  such  sights  as  thou? 
The  hoary  monsters'  palaces!    methinks  Avhat  joy  'twere  now 
To  go  plumb  plunging  down  amid  the  assembly  of  the  whales. 
And  feel  the  churned  sea  round  me  boil  beneath  their  scourging  tails ! 
Then  deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight  the  fierce  sea  unicorn. 
And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  back,  for  all  his  ivory  horn ; 
To  leave  the  subtle  sworder-fish  of  bony  blade  forlorn  ; 
And  for  the  ghastly-grinning  shark  to  laugh  his  jaws  to  scorn ; 
To  leap  down  on  the  kraken's  back,  where  'mid  Norwegian  isles 
lie  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage  for  sudden  shallowed  miles ; 
Till  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  volcano,  off  he  rolls ; 
Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-buffcting  the  far-astonished  shoals 

oi  3 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

Of  his  back-browsing  ocean  calves ;    or,  haply  in  a  cove, 
Shell-strown,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some  Undine's  love, 
To  find  the  long-haired  mermaidens ;    or,  hard  by  icy  lands. 
To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent,  upon  cerulean  sands. 

0  broad-armed  fisher  of  the  deep,  whose  sports  can  equal  thine? 

The  Dolphin  weighs  a  thousand  tons  that  tugs  thy  cable  line ; 

And  night  by  night  'tis  thy  delight,  thy  glory  day  by  day, 

Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white,  the  giant  game  to  play ; 

But,  shamer  of  our  little  sports !    forgive  the  name  I  gave, 

A  fisher's  joy  is  to  destroy — thine  ofhce  is  to  save. 

0  lodger  in  the  sea-king's  halls,  couldst  thou  but  understand 

Wliose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side,  or  who  that  dripping  band, 

Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  waves  that  round  about  thee  bend, 

With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream  blessing  their  ancient  friend : 

Oh,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide  Avith  larger  steps  round  thee. 

Thine  iron  side  would  swell  with  pride ;    thou'dst  leap  Tvithin  the  sea ! 

Give  honour  to  their  memories  who  left  the  pleasant  strand, 

To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love  of  fatherland. 

Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and  grassy  churchyard  grave, 

So  freely,  for  a  restless  bed  amid  the   tossing  wave : 

Oh,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all  I  have  fondly  sung. 

Honour  him  for  their  memory,  whose  bones  he  goes  among  ^ 


374 


;  ^^^ 


MOULTRIE. 


THE   THREE    SONS. 


I  HAVE  a  son,  a  little  son,  a  boy  just  five  years  old. 
With  e^'es  of  thoughtful  oavnestness,  and  mind  of  gentle  mould ; 
They  tell  me  that   lui usual  grace  in  all  his  ways  appears. 
That  my  child  is  grave  and  wise  of  heart  beyond  his  childish  years. 
I  cannot  say  how  this  may  be, — I  know  his  face  is  fair, 
And  yet  his  chiefest  comeliness  is  his  sweet  and  serious  air : 
I  know  his  heart  is  kind  and  fond,  I  know  he  loveth  me, 
But  loveth  yet  his  mother  more  with  grateful  fervency. 

375 


THE  THREE  SONS. 

But  that  which  others  most  admire  is  the  thought  which  fills  his  mind ; 

The  food  for  grave  inquiring  speech  he  everywhere  doth  find : 

Strange  questions  doth  he  ask  of  me,  when  we  together  walk ; 

He  scarcely  thinks  as  children  think,  or  talks  as  children  talk ; 

Nor  cares  he  much  for  childish  sports,  dotes  not  on  bat  or  ball. 

But  looks  on  manhood's  ways  and  works,  and  aptly  mimics  all. 

His  little  heart  is  busy  still,  and  oftentimes  perplext 

With  thoughts  about  this  world  of  ours,  and  thoughts  about  the  next ; 

He  kneels  at  his  dear  mother's  knee,  she  teaches  him  to  pray, 

And  strange,  and  sweet,  and  solemn  then  are  the  words  which  he  will  say. 

Oh,  should  my  gentle  child  be  spared  to  manhood's  years  like  me, 

A  holier  and  a  wiser  man  I  trust  that  he  will  be : 

And  when  I  look  mto  his  eyes,  and  stroke  his  thoughtful  brow, 

I  dare  not  think  what  I  should  feel,  were  I  to  lose  him  now. 

I  have  a  son,  a  second  son,  a  simple  child  of  three ; 

I'll  not  declare  how  bright  and  fair  his  little  features  be, 

How  silver  sweet  those  tones  of  his  when  he  prattles  on  my  knee. 

I  do  not  think  his  light-blue  eye  is,  like  his  brother's,  keen, 

Nor  his  brov/  so  full  of  childish  thought  as  his  hath  ever  been ; 

But  his  little  heart's  a  fountain  pure  of  kind  and  tender  feeling, 

And  his  every  look's  a  gleam  of  light,  rich  depths  of  love  revealing. 

When  he  walks  vnth  me,  the  country  folk,  Avho  pass  us  in  the  street, 

Will  shout  with  joy,  and  bless  my  boy,  he  looks  so  mild  and  sweet. 

A  playfellow  is  he  to  all,  and  yet,  with  cheerful  tone. 

Will  sing  his  little  song  of  love,  when  left  to  sport  alone. 

His  presence  is  like  sunshine  sent  to  gladden  home  and  hearth. 

To  comfort  us  in  all  our  griefs,  and  sweeten  all  our  mirth. 

Should  he  grow  up  to  riper  years,  God  grant  his  heart  may  prove 

As  sweet  a  home  for  heavenly  gi-ace  as  now  for  earthly  love. 

And  if,  beside  his  grave,  the  tears  our  aching  eyes  must  dim, 

God  comfort  us  for  all  the  love  Avhich  we  shall  lose  in  him. 

I  have  a  son,  a  third  sweet  son ;  his  age  I  can  not  tell. 
For  they  reckon  not  by  years  or  months  where  he  is  gone  to  dwell. 
To  us,  for  fourteen  anxious  months,  his  infant  smiles  were  given. 
And  then  he  bade  farewell  to  Earth,  and  went  to  live  in  Heaven. 

376 


MOULTEIE. 

I  cannot  tell  what  form  is  his,  what  looks  he  weareth  now, 

Nor  guess  how  bright  a  glcJry  crowns  his  shining  seraph  brow. 

The  thoughts  that  fill  his  sinless  soul,  the  bliss  which  he  doth  feel, 

Are  number'd  with  the  secret  things  which  God  will  not  reveal. 

But  I  know  (for  God  hath  told  me  this)  that  he  is  now  at  rest, 

AVhere  other  blessed  infants  be,  on  their  Saviour's  loving  breast. 

I  know  his  spirit  feels  no  more  this  weary  load  of  flesh, 

But  his  sleep  is  bless'd  with  endless  dreams  of  joy  for  ever  fresh. 

I  know  the  angels  fold  him  close  beneath  their  glittering  wings, 

And  soothe  him  with  a  song  that  breathes  of  Heaven's  divinest  things. 

I  know  that  we  shall  meet  our  babe,  (liis  mother  dear  and  I,) 

When  God  for  aye  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  every  eye. 

Whate'er  befalls  his  brethren  twain.  Ids  bliss  can  never  cease ; 

Their  lot  may  here  be  grief  and  fear,  but  his  is  certain  peace. 

It  may  be  that  the  tempter's  wiles  their  souls  from  bliss  may  sever, 

But  if  our  own  poor  faith  fail  not,  he  must  be  ours  for  ever. 

When  we  think  of  what  our  darling  is,  and  what  we  still  must  be, — 

When  we  muse  on  that  world's  perfect  bliss,  and  this  world's  misery, — 

Wlien  we  gi'oan  beneath  this  load  of  sin,  and  feel  tliis  grief  and  pain, — 

Oh !  we'd  rather  lose  our  other  two,  than  have  him  here  again. 


377 


"FORGET  THEE?" 


"  FORGET  THEE  1" 

"Forget  theef   if  to  dream  by  night,  and  muse  on  thee  by  day, 

If  all  the  worship  deep  and  wild  a  poet's  heart  can  pay, 

If  prayers  in  absence  breathed  for  thee  to  Heaven's  protecting  power, 

If  winged  thoughts  that  flit  to  thee, — a  thousand  in   an  hour, 

K  busy  Fancy  blending  thee  with  all  my  future  lot, — 

If  this  thou  call'st  "forgetting,"  thou,  indeed,  shalt  be  forgot! 

"Forget  thee'?"   Bid  the  forest-birds  forget  their  sweetest  tune; 
"  Forget  thee  ?"   Bid  the  sea  forget  to  swell  beneath  the  moon ; 
Bid  the  thirsty  flowers  forget  to  drink  the  eve's  refreshing  dew ; 
Thyself  forget  thine  own  ''dear  land"  and  its  "mountains  wild  and  blue." 
Forget  each  old  familiar  face,  each  long-remember'd  spot, — 
When  these  things  are  forgot  by  thee,  then  thou  shalt  be  forgot! 

Keep,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  maiden  peace,  still  calm  and  fancy-free, 
For  God  forbid  thy  gladsome  heart  should  grow  less  glad  for  me ; 
Yet,  while  that  heart  is  still  unwon,  oh !   bid  not  mine  to  rove, 
But  let  it  nurse  its  humble  faith,  and  uncomplaining  love ; — 
If  these,  preserved  for  patient  years,  at  last  avail  me  not, 
Fortret  me  then  : — but  ne'er  believe  that  thou  canst  be  foreot ! 


378 


]\IACAULAY. 


THE    SPANISH   ARMADA. 


Attend,  all  yc  avIio  list  to  hear  our  noble  England's  praise ; 
I  tell  of  the  thrice-fomous  deeds   she  wrought  in  ancient  days, 
"When  that  great  F'leet  Invincible  against  her  bore  in  vain 
The  richest  spoils  of  Mexico,  the  stoutest  hearts  of  Spain. 
It  was  about  the  lovely  close  of  a  warm  summer  day. 
There  came  a  gallant  merchant-ship  full  sail  to  I'lymouth  Bay; 

37!) 


THE  SPANISH  ARMADA. 

Her  crew  hath  seen  Castile's  black  fleet,  beyond  Aurigny's  isle, 

At  earliest  twilight,  on  the  waves  lie  heaving  many  a  mile ; 

At  sunrise  she  escaped  their  van,  by  God's  especial  grace; 

And  the  tall  Pinta,  till  the  noon,  had  held  her  close  in  chase. 

Forthwith  a  guard  at  every  gun  was  placed  along  the  wall ; 

The  beacon  blazed  upon  the  roof  of  Edgecumbe's  lofty  hall ; 

Many  a  light  fishing-bark  put  out  to  pry  along  the  coast; 

And  with  loose  rein  and  bloody  spur  rode  inland  many  a  post. 

With  his  white  hair  unbonneted,  the  stout  old  sheriff  comes ; 

Behind  him  march  the  halberdiers  ;   before  him  sound  the  drums  ; 

His  yeomen  round  the  market-cross  make  clear  an  ample  space, 

For  there  behoves  him  to  set  up  the  standard  of  Her  Grace. 

And  haughtily  the  trumpets  peal,  and  gaily  dance  the  bells. 

As  slow  upon  the  labouring  wind  the  royal  blazon  swells. 

Look  how  the  Lion  of  the  sea  lifts  up  his  ancient  crown. 

And  underneath  his  deadly  paw  treads  the  gay  lilies  down. 

So  stalked  he  when  he  turned  to  flight,  on  that  famed  Picard  field, 

Bohemia's  plume,  and  Genoa's  bow,  and  Cfesar's  eagle  shield: 

So  glared  he  when  at  Agincourt  in  wrath  he  turned  to  bay, 

And  crushed  and  torn  beneath  his  claws  the  princely  hunters  lay. 

Ho !  strike  the  flagstaff  deep.  Sir  Knight :  ho !  scatter  flowers,  fair  maids : 

Ho !   gunners,  fire  a  loud  salute :   ho !   gallants,  draw  your  blades : 

Thou  sun,  shine  on  her  joyously — ye  breezes,  waft  her  wide ; 

Our  glorious  Semper  Eadem,  the  banner  of  our  pride. 

The  freshening  breeze  of  eve  unfurl'd  that  banner's  massy  fold, 
The  parting  gleam  of  sunshine  kissed  that  haughty  scroll  of  gold ; 
Night  sunk  upon  the  dusky  beach,  and  on  the  purple  sea, 
Such  night  in  England  ne'er  had  been,  nor  e'er  again  shall  be. 
From  Eddystone  to  Berwick  bounds,  from  Lynn  to  Milford  Bay, 
That  time  of  slumber  Avas  as  bright  and  busy  as  the  day ; 
For  swift  to  east  and  swift  to  west  the  ghastly  war-flame  spread ; 
High  on  St.  Michael's  Mount  it  shone :   it  shone  on  Beachy  Head. 
Far  on  the  deep  the  Spaniard  saw,  along  each  southern  shire. 
Cape  beyond  cape,  in  endless  range,  those  twinkling  points  of  fire ; 
The  fisher  left  his  skiff  to  rock  on  Tamar's  glittering  waves : 
The  rugged  miners  poured  to  war  from  Mendip's  sunless  caves : 
O'er  Longleat's  towers,  o'er  Cranboui'ne's  oaks,  the  fiery  herald  flew : 

380 


MACAULAY. 

He  roused  the  shepherds  of  Stoneheiige,  the  rangers  of  Beaulieu : 

Eight  sharp  and  quick  the  bells  all  night  rang  out  from  Bristol  town ; 

And  ere  the  day  three  hundred  horse  had  met  on  Clifton  down ; 

The  sentinel  on  Whitehall  Gate  looked  forth  into  the  nidit, 

And  saw  o'erhanging  Eichmond  Hill  the  streak  of  blood-rsd  light. 

Then  bugle's  note  and  cannon's  roar  the  death-like  silence  broke, 

And  with  one  start,  and  with  one  cry,  the  royal  city  woke. 

At  once  on  all  her  stately  gates  arose  the  answering  fires  ; 

At  once  the  wild  alarum  clashed  from  all  her  reeling  spires  ; 

From  all  the  batteries  of  the  Tower  pealed  loud  the  voice  of  fear ; 

And  all  the  thousand  masts  of  Thames  sent  back  a  louder  cheer ; 

And  from  the  farthest  wards  was  heard  the  rush  of  hurrying  feet. 

And  the  broad  streams  of  flags  and  pikes  dashed  down  each  roaring  street : 

And  broader  still  became  the  blaze,  and  louder  still  the  din, 

As  fast  from  every  village  round  the  horse  came  spurring  in : 

And  eastward  straight  from  wild  Blackheath  the  warlike  errand  went,    ^ 

And  roused  in  many  an  ancient  hall  the  gallant  squires  of  Kent. 

Southward  from  Surrey's  pleasant  hills  flew  those  bright  couriers  forth; 

High  on  bleak  Hampstead's  swarthy  moor  they  started  for  the  north; 

And  on,  and  on,  without  a  pause,  untired  they  bounded  still, — 

All  night  from  tower  to  tower  they  sprang ;  they  sprang  from  hill  to  hill : 

TUl  the  proud  peak  unfurl'd  the  flag  o'er  Darwin's  rocky  dales, 

Till  like  volcanoes  flared  to  heaven  the  stormy  hills  of  Wales, 

Till  twelve  fair  counties  saw  the  blaze  on  Malvern's  lonely  height, 

Till  streamed  in  crimson  on  the  wind  the  Wrekin's  crest  of  light. 

Till  broad  and  fierce  the  star  came  forth  on  Ely's  stately  fane, 

And  tower  and  hamlet  rose  in  arms  o'er  all  the  boundless  plain  ; 

Till  Belvoir's  lordly  terraces  the  sign  to  Lincoln  sent, 

And  Lincoln  sped  the  message  on  o'er  the  wide  vale  of  Trent ; 

Till  Skiddaw  saw  the  fire  that  burned  on  Gaunt's  embattled  pile, 

And  the  red  glare  on  Skiddaw  roused  the  burghers  of  Carlisle. 


381 


MOTHERWELL. 


JEANIE    MORRISON. 


I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day! 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en, 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 
Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path. 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears : 
They  blind  my  een  wi'   saut,  saut  tears. 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine. 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part ; 
Sweet  time — sad  time !  twa  bairns  at  scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear ; 
And  tones,  and  looks,  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remembered  evermair. 
382 


MOTHERWELL. 

I  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  lock'cl  in  loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think? 
When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

Oh,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads. 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
"Wliene'er  the  scule-weans  laughin'  said, 

We  cleek'd  thegither  hame? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays, 

(The  scule  then  skail't  at  noon,) 
When  we  ran  aff  to  speel  the  braes — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea. 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

O'  scule-time  and  o'   thee. 
Oil,  momin'  life  !    oh,  mornin'  luve  ! 

Oh  lichtsome  days  and  lang,  \ 

When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 

Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang ! 

Oh  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome   toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside. 

And  hear  its  waters  croon? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet. 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'   the  wood, 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet ; 


'5 


JEANIE  MORRISON. 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees, 
And  we  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn, 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  tUl  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Aye,  aye,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Teai's  trinkled  doun  your  cheek. 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung ! 


I  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts. 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me? 
Oh !    tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine ; 
Oh !    say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne? 


I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart. 

Still  travels  on  its  way ; 
And  channels  deeper  as  it  rins. 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 
384 


MOTHERWELL. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  Ave  were  sindered  young, 
I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  die. 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

O'  bygane  days  and  me ! 


THEY  COME!    THE  MERRY  SUMMER  MONTHS. 


They  come !   the  merry  summer  months  of  Beauty,  Song,  and  Flowers ; 

Tliey  come !    the  gladsome  months  that  bring  thick  leafiness  to  bowers. 

Up,  up,  my  heart,  and  Avalk  abroad,  fling  cark  and  care  aside, 

Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself  Avhere  peaceful  waters  glide ; 

Or,  underneath  the  shadow  vast  of  patriarchal  tree. 

Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky  in  rapt  tranquillitv. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch  is  grateful  to  the  hand, 

And  like  tlie  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the  breeze  is  sweet  and  bland ; 

The  daisy  and  the  buttercup  are  nodding  courteously, 

It  stirs  their  blood  witli  kindest  love,  to  bless  and  welcome  thee : 

And  mark  how  Avith  thine  own  tliiii  locks, — they  now  are  silvery  grey, — 

That  blissful  breeze  is  Avantoning,  and  Avhispei'ing  "  Be  gay  I" 

Tliere  is  no  cloud  tliat  sails  along  the  ocean  of  yon  sky. 
Hut  hath  its  OAvn  Avinged  mariners  to  give  it  melody : 
Thou  seest  their  glittering  ians  outspread  all  gleaming  like  red  gold  ; 
And  hark !    Avith  shrill  pipe  musical,  their  merry  course  they  liold. 

385  BB 


A  SOLEMN  CONCEIT. 

God  bless  them  all,  these  little  ones,  who  far  above  this  earth, 
Can  make  a  scoff  of  its  mean  joys,  and  vent  a  nobler  mirth. 

But  soft !    mine,  ear  upcaught  a  sound ;    from  yonder  wood  it  came ; 

The  spirit  of  the  dim  green  glade  did  breathe  his  own  glad  name ; — 

Yes,  it  is  he !    the  hermit  bird,  that  apart  from  all  his  kind 

Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous  to  the  soft  western  wind ; 

Cuckoo !    Cuckoo !    he  sings  again, — his  notes  are  void  of  art, 

But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  sound  the  deep  founts  of  the  heart ! 

(^ood  Lord !    it  is  a  gracious  boon  for  thought-crazed  wight  like  me, 
To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers  beneath  this  summer  tree  ! 
To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath  their  little  souls  away. 
And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams  of  youth's  bright  summer  day. 
When  rushing  forth  like  untamed  colt,  the  reckless  truant  boy 
Wandered  through  green  woods  all  day  long,  a  mighty  heart  of  joy ! 

I'm  sadder  now,  I  have  had  cause ;    but  O !    I'm  proud  to  think 
That  each  pure  joy-fount  loved  of  yore,  I  yet  delight  to  drink ; — 
Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream,  the  calm  unclouded  sky, 
Still  mingle  music  in  my  dreams  as  in  the  days  gone  by. 
When  summer's  loveliness  and  light  fall  round  me  dark  and  cold, 
I'll  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  curse, — a  heart  that  hath  waxed  old! 


A  SOLEMN  CONCEIT. 

Stately  trees  are  growing, 
Lusty  winds  are  blowing, 
And  mighty  rivers  flowing 

On,  for  ever  on. 
As  stately  forms  were  growing, 
As  lusty  spirits  blowing, 
As  mighty  fancies  flowing 

On,  for  ever  on  ; 
38G 


MOTHERWELL. 

But  there  has  been  leave-takmg, 
Sorrow  and  heart-breaking, 
And  a  moan,  pale  Echo's  making, 
For  the  gone,  for  ever  gone ! 

Lovely  stars  are  gleaming. 
Bearded  lights  are  streaming. 
And  glorious  suns  are  beaming 

On,  for  ever  on. 
As  lovely  eyes  were  gleaming. 
As  Avondrous  lights  were  streaming, 
As  glorious  minds  were  beaming 

On,  for  ever  on  ; — 
But  there  has  been  soul-sundering, 
Wailing,  and  sad  wondering ; 
For  graves  grow  fat  with  plundering 

The  gone,  for  ever  gone ! 

We  see  great  eagles  soaring. 
We  hear  deep  oceans  roaring. 
And  sparkling  fountains  pouring 

On,  for  ever  on. 
As  lofty  ones  were  soaring, 
As  sonorous  voices  roaring, 
And  as  sparkling  wits  were  pouring 

On,  for  ever  on  ; — 
But,  pinions  have  been  shedding. 
And  voiceless  darkness  spreading, 
Since  a  measure  Death's  been  treading 

O'er  the  gone,  for  ever  gone ! 

Every  thing  is  sundering. 

Every  one  is  wondering, 

And  this  huge  globe  goes  thundering 

On,  for  ever  on. 
But,  "mid  this  weary  sundering, 
Heart-breaking  and  sad  wondering, 
32? 


A  SOLEMN  CONCEIT. 

And  this  huge  globe's  rude  thundering 

On,  for  ever  on, 
I  -would  that  I  were  dreaming 
AVhere  little  flowers  are  gleaming, 
And  the  long  green  grass  is  streaming 

O'er  the  gone,  for  ever  gone! 


388 


TAYLOE. 

ARTEVELDE  IN  GHENT. 

THE    PLATFORM    AT  THE   TOP   OF   THE   STEEPLE   OF    ST.    NICHOLAS'    CIIUKCH.  — TIMF. -I>AY-BKEAK 

ARTEVELDE    {cilone). 

There  lies  a  sleeping  city.     God  of  dreams ! 

What  an  unreal  and  fantastic  world 

Is  going  on  below ! 

AVithin  the  sweep  of  yon  encircling  wall, 

How  many  a  large  creation  of  the  night, 

Wide  wildei-ncss  and  moinitain,  rock  and  sea, 

Peopled  with  busy  transitory  groups, 

Finds  room   to  rise,  and  never  feels  the  crowd ! 

— If  when  the  shows  had  left  the  dreamers'  eyes 

They  should  float  upward  visibly  to  mine. 

How  thick  with  apparitions  were  that  void ! 

But  now  the  blank  and  blind  profundity 

Turns  my  brain  giddy  A\itli  a  sick  aversion. 

— I  have  not  slept.     I  am  to  blame  for  that. 

Long  vigils,  join'd  with  scant  and  meagre  food, 

Must  needs   impair  that  promptitude  of  mind, 

And  cheerfulness  of  spirit,  wliich,  in  him 

Who  leads  a  multitude,  is  past  all  price. 

1   tliink  I  could  redeem  an  hour's  repose 

Out  of  the  night  that  I  have  squander'd,  yet. 

The  breezes,  launch'd  upon  their  early  voyage, 

Play  with  a  pleasing  freshness  on  my  fac(\ 

I  will  enfold  my  cloak  about  my  limbs. 

And  lie  where  I  shall  front  them; — here,  I   tliink. 

[7/(2  lies  dowii. 


ARTEVELDE  IN  GHENT. 

If  this  were  over — blessed  be  the  calm 
That  comes  to  me  at  last!     A  friend  in  need 
Is  nature  to  us,  that,  when  all  is  spent, 
Brings  slumber — bountifully — whereupon 
We  give  her  sleepy  welcome — if  all  this 
Were  honourably  over — Adrianna — 

[Falls  asleep,  but  starts  up  almost  instanthj. 
I  heard  a  hoof,  a  horse's  hoof  I'll  swear. 
Upon  the  road  from  Bruges, — or  did  I  dream? 
No !    'tis  the  gallop  of  a  horse  at  speed. 

VAN   DEN    BOSCH   {witJlOUt). 

What  ho !    Van  Artevelde  ! 

ARTEVELDE. 

Who  calls? 
VAN  DEN  BOSCH  {entering). 

'Tis  I. 
Thou  art  an  early  riser,  like  myself; 
Or  is  it  that  thou  hast  not  been  to  bed? 

ARTEVELDE. 

What  are  thy  tidings? 

VAN    DEN    BOSCH. 

Nay,  what  can  they  be? 
A  page  from  pestilence  and  famine's  day-book ; 
So  many  to  the  pest-house  carried  in. 
So  many  to  the  dead-house  carried  out. 
The  same  dull,  dismal,  damnable  old  story. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Be  quiet ;    listen  to  the  westerly  wind, 
And  tell  me  if  it  bring  thee  nothing  new. 

VAN    DEN    BOSCH. 

Nought  to  my  ear,  save  howl  of  hungry  dog 
That  hears  the  house  is  stirring — nothing  else. 

ARTEVELDE. 

No, — now — I  hear  it  not  myself — no — nothing. 
The  city's  hum  is  up — but  ere  you  came 
'Twas  audible  enough. 

390 


TAYLOR. 
VAN    DEN    BOSCH. 

In  God's  name  what? 

ARTEVELDE. 

A  horseman's  tramp  upon  the  road  from  Bruges. 

VAN    DEN    BOSCH. 

\Vhy,  then,  be  certain  'tis  a  flag  of  truce ! 

If  once  he  reach  the  city  we  are  lost. 

Nay,  if  he  be  but  seen,  our  danger's  great. 

What  terms  so  bad  they  would  not  swallow  now? 

Let's  send  some  trusty  varlets  forth  at  once 

To  cross  his  Avay. 

AKTEVELDE. 

And  send  him  back  to  Bruges? 

VAN    DEN    BOSCH. 

Send  him  to  hell — and  that's  a  better  place. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Nay,  softly,  Van  den  Bosch ;   let  war  be  war. 
But  let  us  keep  its  ordinances. 

VAN    DEN    BOSCH. 

Tush ! 
I  say,  but  let  them  see  him  from  afar, 
And  in  an  hour  shall  we,  bound  hand  and  foot, 
Be  on  our  Avay  to  Bruges. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Not  so,  not  so ; 
My  rule  of  governance  has  not  been  such 
As  e'er  to  issue  in  so  foul  a  close. 

VAN    DEN    BOSCH. 

AVhat  matter  by  Avhat  rule  thou  may'st  have  goveni'd  ' 
Think'st  thou  a  hundred  thousand  citizens 
Shall  stay  the  fury  of  their  empty  maAvs 
Because  thou'st  ruled  them  justly? 

ARTEVELDE. 

It  may  be 
That  such  a  hope  is  mine. 

391 


VAN    DEN    BOSCH. 

Then  thou  art  mad. 
And  I  must  take  this  matter  on  myself.  [Is  going. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Hold,  Van  den  Bosch  ;    I  say  this  shall  not  be. 

392 


TAYLOR. 

I  must  be  madder  than  I  think  I  am 
Ere  I  shall  yield  up  my  authority, 
Which  I  abuse  not,  to  be  used  by  thee. 

VAN    DEN   BOSCH. 

This  comes  of  lifting  dreamers  into  power. 
I  tell  thee,  in  this  strait  and  stress  of  famine, 
The  people,  but  to  pave  the  way  for  peace, 
Would  instantly  despatch  our  heads  to  l?ruges. 
Once  and  again  I  warn  thee  that  thy  life 
Hangs  by  a  thread. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Why,  know  I  not  it  does'? 
What  hath  it  hung  by  else  since  Utas'  eve? 
Did  I  not  by  mine  own  advised  choice 
Place  it  in  jeopardy  for  certain  ends? 
And  what  were  these  ?     To  prop  thy  tottering  state  ? 
To  float  thee  o'er  a  reef,  and,  that  performed, 
To  cater  for  our  joint  security? 
No,  verily  ;    not  such  my  high  ambition. 
I  bent  my  thoughts  on  yonder  city's  weal ; 
I  looked  to  give  it  victory  and  freedom; 
And  working  to  that  end,  by  consequence 
From  one  great  peril  did  deliver  thee — 
Not  for  the  love  of  thee  or  of  thy  life, 
Which  I  i-egard  not,  but  the  city's  service ; 
And  if  for  that  same  service  it  seem  good, 
I  will  expose  thy  life  to  equal  hazard. 

VAN    DEN    BOSCH. 

Thou  wilt? 

ARTEVELDE. 
I   will. 
VAN    DEN    BOSCII. 

Oh,  Lord!    to  hear  him  speak. 
What  a  most  mighty  emperor  of  puppets 
Is  liiis  that  I  have  brought  upon   the  board! 
liut  how  if  he  that  made  it  should  unmake? 

393 


AKTEVELDE  IN  GHENT. 


ARTEVELDE. 


Unto  His  sovereignty  who  truly  made  me 

With  infinite  humility  I  bow  ! 

Both,  both  of  us  are  puppets,  Van  den  Bosch ; 

Part  of  the  curious  clock-work  of  this  world. 

We  scold,  and  squeak,  and  crack  each  other's  crowns ; 

And  if  by  twitches  moved  from  wires  we  see  not, 

1  were  to  toss  thee  from  this  steeple's  top, 

I  should  be  but  the  instrument — no  more — 

The  tool  of  that  chastising  Providence 

Which  doth  exalt  the  lowly,  and  abase 

The  violent  and  proud :    but  let  me  hope 

There's  no  such  task  appointed  me  to-day. 

Thou  passest  in  the  world  for  worldly  wise : 

Then,  seeing  we  must  sink  or  swim  together, 

What  can  it  profit  thee,  in  this  extreme 

Of  our  distress,  to  wrangle  Avith  me  thus 

For  my  supremacy  and  rule  ?     Thy  fate, 

As  of  necessity  bound  up  with  mine, 

Must  needs  partake  my  cares :    let  that  suffice 

To  put  thy  pride  to  rest  till  better  times. 

Contest — more  reasonably  wrong — a  prize 

More  precious  than  the  ordering  of  a  shipwreck. 

VAN   DEN    BOSCH. 

Tush,  tush.  Van  Artevelde  ;  thou  talk'st  and  talk'st, 

And  honest  burghers  think  it  wondrous  fine. 

But  thou  minfht'st  easilier  with  that  tonjiue  of  thine 

Persuade  yon  smoke  to  fly  i'  th'  face  o'  the  wind, 

Than  talk  away  my  wit  and  understanding. 

I  say  yon  herald  shall  not  enter  hei-e. 

ARTEVELDE. 

I  know,  sir,  no  man  better,  where  my  talk 
Is  serviceable  singly,  where  it  needs 
To  be  by  acts  enforced.     I  say,  beware. 
And  brave  not  mine  authority  too  far. 

394 


TAYLOR. 
VAN    DEN    BOSCH. 

Hast  thou  authority  to  take  my  life  ? 
What  is  it  else  to  let  yon  herald  in 
To  bargain  for  our  blood? 

ARTEVELDE. 

Thy  life  again  ! 
Why,  what  a  Aery  slave  of  life  art  thou ! 
Look  round  about  on  this  once  populous  town  ; 
Not  one  of  these  innumerous  house-tops 
But  hides  some  spectral  form  of  misery, 
Some  peevish,  pining  child  and  moaning  mother, 
Some  aged  man  that  in  his  dotage  scolds, 
Not  knowing  why  he  hungers,  some  cold  corse 
That  lies  unstraightened  where  the  spirit  left  it. 
Look  round,  and  answer  what  thy  life  can  be 
To  tell  for  more  than  dust  upon  the  balance. 
I,  too,  would  live — I  have  a  love  for  life — 
But  rather  than  to  live  to  charge  my  soul 
With  one  hour's  lengthening  out  of  woes  like  these, 
I'd  leap  this  parapet  with  as  free  a  bound 
As  e'er  was  schoolboy's  o'er  a  garden  wall. 

VAX    DEN    BOSCII. 

I'd  like  to  see  thee  do  it. 

ARTEVELDE. 

I  know  thou  wouldst ; 
But  lor  the  present  be  content  to  see 
My  less  pi'ecipitate  descent ;    for  lo !  \ 

There  comes  the  herald  o'er  the  hill. 


[Exit 


VAN    DEN    BOSCH. 

Beshrew  thee! 
Thou  shalt  not  have  the  start  of  me  in  this. 


\_IIe  follows,  and  the  scene  closes. 


395 


ERNESTO. 


ERNESTO. 


Thoughtfully  by  the  side  Ernesto  sate 

Of  her  whom,  in  his  earlier  youth,  with  heart 

Then  first  exulting  in  a  dangerous  hope, 

Dearer  for  danger,  he  had  rashly  loved. 

That  was  a  season  when  the  untravell'd  spirit. 

Not  way-worn  nor  way-wearied,  nor  with  soil 

Nor  stain  upon  it,  lions  in  its  path 

Saw  none — or  seeing,  with  triumphant  trust 

In  its  resources  and  its  powers,  defied — 

Perverse  to  find  provocatives  in  warnings, 

And  in  disturbance  taking  deep  delight. 

By  sea  or  land  he  still  saw  rise  the  storm 

With  a  gay  courage,  and  through  broken  lights, 

Tempestuously  exalted,  for  a  while 

His  heart  ran  mountains  high,  or  to  the  roar 

Of  shatter' d  forests  sang  superior  songs 

With  kindling,  and  Avhat  might  have  seem'd  to  some. 

Auspicious  energy ; — by  land  and  sea 

He  was  way-founder'd — trampled  in  the  dust 

His  many-colour'd  hopes — his  lading  rich 

Of  precious  pictures,  bi-ight  imaginations. 

In  absolute  shipwTeck   to  the  Avind  and  waves 

Suddenly  render' d — 

By  her  side  he  sate : 
But  time  had  been  between  and  wov'n  a  veil 
Of  seven  years'  separation ;    and  the  past 
Was  seen  with  soften'd  outlines,  like  the  face 
Of  Nature  through  a  mist.     What  was  so  seen? 
In  a  short  hour,  there  sitting  with  his  eyes 
Fix'd  on  her  face,  observant  though  abstracted, 

39G 


TAYLOR. 

Lost  partly  in  the  past,  but  mixing  still 
With  his  remembrances  the  life  before  him, 
He  traced  it  all — the  pleasant  first  accost, 
Agreeable  acquaintance,  growing  friendship, 
Love,  j^assion  at  the  culminating  point 
When  in  a  sleeping  body  through  the  night 
The  heart  would  lie  awake,  reverses  next 
Gnawing  the  mind  with  doubtfulness,  and  last 
The  affectionate  bitterness  of  love  refused. 
— Rash  had  he  been  by  choice — by  wanton  choice 
Deliberately  rash ;   but  in  the  soil 
Where  grows  the  bane,  grows  too  the  antidote ; 
The  same  young-heartedness  which  knew  not  fear 
Renounced  despondency,  and  brought  at  need 
With  its  results,  resources.     In  his  day 
Of  utter  condemnation,  there  remain'd 
A|)peal  to  that  imaginative  power 
Which  can  commute  a  sentence  of  sore  pain 
For  one  of  softer  sadness,  Avhich  can  bathe 
The  broken  spirit  in  the  balm  of  tears. 
And  more  and  better  to  after  days ;   for  soon 
Upsprang  the  mind  within  him,  and  he  knew 
The  afHuence  and  the  growth  which  nature  yields 
After  an  overflow  of  loving  grief. 
Hence  did  he  deem  that  he  could  freely  draw 
A  natural  indemnity.     The  tree 
Sucks  kindlier  nurture  from  a  soil  enrich'd 
By  its  own  fallen  leaves ;    and  man  is  made 
Tn   heart  and  spirit  from  deciduous  hopes 
And  things  that  seem  to  perish.      Thro'   the  stress 
And  fever  of  his  suit,  from  first  to  last, 
His  pride  (to  call   it    by  no  nobler  name) 
Had  been  to  love  with  reason  and  Avith  truth, 
To  carry  clear  thro'  many  a  turbulent  trial 
A  perspicacious  judgment  and  true  tongue, 
And  neither  with  fair  Avord  nor  partial  thought 
To  flatter  whom  he  loved.     If  pride  it  was 

3'J7 


ERNESTO. 

To  love  and  not  to  flatter,  by  a  breatli 

Of  purer  aspiration  was  he  moved 

To  suffer  and  not  blame,  grieve,  not  resent; 

And  when  all  hopes  that  needs  must  knit  with  self 

Their  object,  were  irrevocably  gone. 

Cherish  a  mild  commemorative  love, 

Such  as  a  mourner  might  unblamed  bestow 

On  a  departed  spirit — 

Once  again 
He  sate  beside  her — for  the  last  time  now. 
And  scarcely  was  she  alter'd ;   for  the  hours 
Had  led  her  lightly  down  the  vale  of  life, 
Dancing  and  scattering  roses,  and  her  face 
Seem'd  a  perpetual  daybreak,  and  the  woods, 
Where'er  she  rambled,  echoed  through  their  aisles 
The  music  of  a  laugh  so  softly  gay 
That  spring  with  all  her  songsters  and  her  songs 
Knew  nothing  like  it.     But  how  changed  was  he ! 
Care  and  disease  and  ardours  uni-epress'd. 
And  labours  unremitted,  and  much  grief,  ' 

Had  written  their  death-warrant  on  his  brow. 
Of  this  she  saw  not  all — she  saw  but  little — 
That  which  she  could  not  choose  but  see  she  saw ; 
And  o'er  her  sunlit  dimples  and  her  smiles 
A  shadow  fell — a  transitory  shade ; 
And  when  tlie  phantom  of  a  hand  she  clasped 
At  parting  scarce  responded  to  her  touch, 
She  sigh'd — but  hoped  the  best. 

When  winter  came 
She  sigh'd  again; — for  with  it  came  the  word 
That  trouble  and  love  had  found  their  place  of  rest 
And  slept  beneath  Madeira's  orange  groves. 


398 


MOIR. 


CASA  WAPPY.* 

7\jsrD  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home, 

Our  fond,  dear  boy — 
The  reahns  where  sorrow  dare  not  come, 

AVhere  life  is  joy? 
Pure  at  thy  death  as  at  thy  birth, 
Thy  spirit  caught  no  taint  from  earth ; 
Even  by  its  bliss  we  mete  our  death, 

Casa  Wappy! 

Despair  was  in  our  last  farewell. 

As  closed  thine  eye  ; 
Tears  of  our  anguish  may  not  tell 

When  thou  didst  die ; 
Words  may  not  paint  our  grief  for  thee, 
Sighs  are  but  bubbles  on  the  sea 
Of  our  unfathomed  agony, 

Casa  Wappy! 

Thou  wert  a  vision  of  delight 

To  bless  us  given ;  ^ 

Beauty  embodied  to  our  sight, 

A  type  of  lieaven : 
So  dear  to  us  thou  wcrt,  thou  art 
Even  less  thine  own  self  than  a  part 
Of  mine  and  of  thy  mother's  heart, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

*  Casa  Wappy  was  the  self-conferred  pet-name  of  an  infant  son  of  the  poet, 
snatched  away  after  a  very  brief  illness. 

399 


CASA  WAPPy. 

Thy  bright  brief  clay  knew  no  decline, 

'Twas  cloudless  joy ; 
Sunrise  and  night  alone  were  thine 

Beloved  boy ! 
This  morn  beheld  thee  blithe  and  gay, 
That  found  thee  prostrate  in  decay, 
And  ere  a  third  shone,  clay  was  clay, 

Casa  Wappy! 

Gem  of  our  hearth,  our  household  pride, 

Earth's  undefiled ; 
Could  love  have  saved,  thou  hadst  not  died, 

Our  dear,  sweet  child ! 
Humbly  we  bow  to  Fate's  decree ; 
Yet  had  we  hoped  that  Time  should  see 
Thee  mourn  for  us,  not  us  for  thee, 

Casa  Wappy! 

Do  what  I  may,  go  where  I  will. 

Thou  meet'st  my  sight ; 
There  dost  thou  glide  before  me  still — 

A  form   of  light  ! 
I  feel  thy  breath  upon  my  cheek — 
I  see  thee  smile,  I  hear  thee  speak — 
Till  oh  !   my  heart  is  like  to  break, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Methinks  thou  smil'st  before  me  now. 

With  glance  of  stealth  ; 
The  hair  thrown  back  from  thy  full  brow 

In  buoyant  health : 
I  see  thine  eye's  deep  violet  light. 
Thy  dimpled  cheek  carnationed  bright, 
Thy  clasping  arms  so  round  and  white, 

Casa  Wappy ! 
400 


MOIR. 

The  nursery  shows  thy  pictured  wall, 

Thy  bat,  thy  bow, 
Thy  cloak  and  bonnet,  club  and  ball ; 

But  where  art  thou  ? 
A  corner  holds  thine  empty  chair,  ^ 

Thy  playthings  idly  scattered  there, 
But  speak  to  us  of  our  despair, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Even  to  the  last  thy  every  word — 

To  glad,  to  grieve — 
Was  sweet  as  sweetest  song  of  bird 

On  summer's  eve ; 
In  outwai'd  beauty  undecayed. 
Death  o'er  thy  spirit  cast  no  shade. 
And  like  the  rainbow  thou  didst  fade, 

Casa  Wappy! 

We  mourn  for  thee  when  blind  blank  night 

The  chamber  tills ; 
We  pine  for  thee  when  morn's  first  light 

Reddens  the  hills : 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sea, 
All,  to  tlie  wall-flower  and  wild  pea, 
Are  changed — we  saw  the  Avorld  through  thee, 

Casa  Wappy!  N 

And  though,  perchance,  a  smile  may  gleam 

Of  casual   mirth, 
It  doth  not  own,  whate'er  may  seem. 

An  inward  birth  : 
We  miss  thy  small  step  on  the  stair ; 
We  miss  thee  at  thine  evening   prayer ! 
All  day  Avo  miss  thee,  everywhere, 

Casa  Wappy! 
401  c  c 


CASA  WAPPY. 

Snows  muffled  earth  when  thou  didst  go, 

In  life's  spring  bloom, 
Down  to  the  appointed  house  below. 

The  silent  tomb. 
But  now  the  green  leaves  of  the  tree, 
The  cuckoo  and  " the  busy  bee" 
Return — but  with  them  bring  not  thee, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

'Tis  so ;   but  can  it  be  (while  flowers 

Revive  again) 
Man's  doom,  in  death  that  we  and  ours 

For  aye  remain  ? 
Oh !    can  it  be,  that  o'er  the  grave 
The  grass  renewed,  should  yearly  wave, 
Yet  God  forget  our  child  to  save? — 

Casa  Wappy  I 

It  cannot  be :   for  were  it  so 

Thus  man  could  die, 
Life  were  a  mockery.  Thought  were  woe. 

And  Truth  a  lie ; 
Heaven  were  a  coinage  of  the  brain. 
Religion  frenzy,  Virtue  vain, 
And  all  our  hopes  to  meet  again, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Then  be  to  us,  O  dear,  lost  child ! 

With  beam  of  love, 
A  star,  death's  uncongenial  wild 

Smiling  above ; 
Soon,  soon  thy  little  feet  have  trod 
The  skyward  path,  the  seraph's  road, 
That  led  thee  back  from  man  to  God, 

Casa  Wappy ! 
402 


MOIR. 

Yet  'tis  sweet  balm  to  our  despair, 

Fond,  fairest  boy, 
That  heaven  is  God's,  and  thou  art  there, 

With  him  in  joy: 
There  past  are  death  and  all  its  woes. 
There  beauty's  stream  forever  flows, 
And  pleasure's  day  no  sunset  knows, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Farewell,  then — for  a  while,  farewell — 

Pride  of  my  heart! 
It  cannot  be  that  long  we  dwell. 

Thus  torn  apart: 
Time's  shadows  like  the  shuttle  flee : 
And,  dark  howe'er  life's  night  may  be, 
Beyond  the  grave  TU  meet  with  thee, 

Casa  Wappy! 


403 


SMBliiiiiiiiiiiniuiiiiiB'fi.iiiiisiiiiiiiilHIiliniiiiliiiiiiiiiiiif 


TRENCH. 
THE   SPILT  PEARLS. 

His  courtiers  of  the  Caliph  crave, — 
"  Oh,  say  how  this  may  be. 

That  of  thy  slaves,  this  Ethiop  slave 
Is  best  beloved  by  thee? 

"  For  he  is  ugly  as  the  Night ; 

But  when  has  ever  chose 
A  nightingale,  for  its  delight, 

A  hueless,  scentless  rosel" 

The  Caliph,  then  : — "  No  features  fair. 
Nor  comely  mien,  are  his ; 

Love  is  the  beauty  he  doth  wear, 
And  Love  his  glory  is. 


"  When  once  a  camel  of  my  train 
There  fell  in  narrow  street, 

From  broken  casket  roU'd  amain 
Rich  pearls  before  my  feet. 
404 


TRENCH. 

"  I  winking  to  the  slaves  that  I 
Would  freely  give  them  these, 

At  once  upon  the  spoil  they  fly, 
The  costly  boon  to  seize. 

"  One  only  at  my  side  remained — 

Beside  this  Ethiop  none : 
He,  moveless  as  the  steed  he  reined. 

Behind  me  sat  alone. 

"  '  What  will  thy  gain,  good  fellow,  be, 
Thus  lingering  at  my  side?' 

'My  king,  that  I  shall  faithfully 
Have  guarded  thee,'  he  cried. 

"  True  servant's  title  he  may  wear 

He  only  who  has  not. 
For  his  Lord's  gifts,  how  rich  soe'er, 

His  Lord  himself  forgot." 


'o^ 


So  thou  alone  dost  walk  before 
Thy  God  with  perfect  aim, 

From  Him  desiring  nothing  more 
Beside  Himself  to  claim. 


For  if  thou  not  to  Him  aspire. 

But  to  His  gifts  alone, 
Not  Love,  but  covetous  desire. 

Has  brought  thee  to  Plis  throne. 

"NATiile  such  thy  prayer,  it  climbs  above 

In   vain — the  golden  key 
Of  (lod's  rich   treasure-house  of  love, 

Thine  own   will   never  be 


405 


EMERSON. 

THE    HUMBLE-BEE. 

Burly,  dozing,  humble-bee, 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek ; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid  zone  ! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer. 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines ; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion ! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere ; 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air ; 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon ; 
Ei^icurean  of  June  ; 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

AVhen  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 
AVith  a  net  of  shining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall. 
And,  with  softness  touching  all. 
Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  a  colour  of  romance, 
And,  infusing  subtle  heats, 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets. 
Thou,  in  sunny  solitudes, 
Rover  of  the  underwoods, 
406 


EMERSON. 

The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's   petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found ; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavoury  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen  ; 
But  violets  and  bilberry  bells. 
Maple-sap,  and  daffodels. 
Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 
Succory  to  match  the  sky, 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey. 
Scented  fern  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catch-fly,  adder' s-tongue. 
And  brier  roses,  dwelt  among ; 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer. 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher ! 
Seeing  only  what   is  fair, 
Sipiiing  only  Avhat  is  sweet. 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 
Leave  the  chaff,  and  take  the  wheat. 
When   the  fierce  north-western  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast. 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep ; 
AVoe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep; 
Want   and  woe,  whicli   torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 
407 


HOFFMANN. 

SPARKLING  AND  BRIGHT. 

Sparkling  and  bright  in  liquid  light, 

Does  the  wine  our  goblets  gleam  in, 
With  hue  as  red  as  the  rosy  bed 

AVhich  a  bee  would  choose  to  dream  in. 
Then  fill  to-night  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim. 
And  break  on  the  lips  while   meeting. 

Oh !    if  Mirth  might  arrest  the  flijiht 
Of  Time  through  Life's  dominions. 

We  here  awhile  would  now  beguile 
The  grey-beard  of  his  pinions 

To  drink  to-night  with  hearts  as  lisht, 

CD  O  ' 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker  s  brim. 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

But  since  delight  can't  tempt  the  wight, 

Nor  fond  regret  delay  him. 
Nor  Love  himself  can  hold  the  elf, 
Nor  sober  Friendship  stay  him. 

We'll  drink  to-night  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  Avhile  meeting. 


408 


MORRIS. 

WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE. 

o 
Woodman,  spare  that  tree ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough ! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I'll  protect  it  now. 
'Twas  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not ! 

That  old  familiar  tree. 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down  ? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke ! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties ; 
Oh,  spare  that  aged  oak. 

Now  towering  to  the  skies ! 

When  but  an  idle  boy 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade  ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here  too  my  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed   me  here; 

My  father  pressed   my  hand — 
Forgive  tliis  foolish  tear, 

IJut  let  that  old  oak   stand  ! 

My  heart-strings  round   tlu'i'   clini;-, 
Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend ! 

Here  shall   the  wild-bird  sing, 
And   still    thy  branches  bend. 
409 


POETRY. 

Old  tree!    the  storm  still  brave! 

And  woodman,  leave  the  spot ; 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 


POETRY. 


To  me  the  world's  an  open  book, 

Of  sweet  and  pleasant  poetry ; 
I  read  it  in  the  running  brook 

That  sings  its  way  towards  the  sea. 
It  whispers  in  the  leaves  of  trees, 

The  swelling  grain,  the  waving  grass, 
And  in  the  cool,  fresh  evening  breeze 

That  crisps  the  wavelets  as  they  pass. 

The  flowers  below,  the  stars  above. 

In  all  their  bloom  and  brightness  given, 
Are,  like  the  attributes  of  love. 

The  poetry  of  earth  and  heaven. 
Thus  Nature's  volume,  read  aright, 

Attunes  the  soul  to  minstrelsy. 
Tinging  life's  clouds  with  rosy  light, 

And  all  the  world  with  poetry. 


410 


HOYT. 


SNOW— A  WINTER  SKETCH. 


The  blessed  morn  has  come  again  ; 

The  early  gray 
Taps  at  the  slumbcrcr's  window  pane, 

And  seems  to  say 
Break,  break  from  the  enchanter's  chain. 

Away,  away! 

411 


SNOW— A  WINTER  SKETCH. 

'Tis  winter,  yet  there  is  no  sound 

Along  the  air, 
Of  winds  upon  their  battle-ground, 

But  gently  there, 
The  snow  is  falling, — all  around 

How  fair — how  fair  ! 


The  jocund  fields  would  masquerade ; 

Fantastic  scene ! 
Tree,  shrub,  and  lawn,  and  lonely  glade 

Have  cast  their  green. 
And  joined  the  revel,  all  arrayed 

So  white  and  clean. 


E'en  the  old  posts,  that  hold  the  bars 

And  the  old  gate, 
Forgetful  of  their  wintry  wars, 

And  age  sedate. 
High  capped,  and  plumed,  like  white  hussars, 

Stand  there  in  state. 


The  drifts  are  hanging  by  the  sill. 

The  eaves,  the  door  ; 
The  hay-stack  has  become  a  hill; 

All  covered  o'er 
The  waggon,  loaded  for  the  mill 

The  eve  before. 


Maria  brings  the  watei'-pail, 

But  where' s  the  well ! 
Like  magic  of  a  fairy  tale. 

Most  strange  to  tell, 
All  vanished,  curb,  and  crank,  and  rail! 

How  deep  it  fell ! 

412 


HOYT. 

The  Avoocl-pile,  too,  is  playing  hide  ; 

The  axe,  the  log. 
The  kennel  of  that  friend  so  tried, 

(The  old  watch-dog,) 
The  grindstone  standing  by  its  side, 

All  now  incog. 


The  bustling  cock  looks  out  aghast 

From  his  high  shed ; 
No  spot  to  sci'atch  him  a  i-epast 

Up  curves  his  head, 
Starts  the  dull  hamlet  with  a  blast, 

And  back  to  bed. 


Old  drowsy  dobbin,  at  the  call, 

Amazed,  awakes ; 
Out  from  the  window  of  his  stall 

A  view  he  takes ; 
While  thick  and  faster  seem  to  fall 

The  silent  flakes. 


The  barn-yard  gentry,  musing,  chime 

Their  morning  moan ; 
Like  Memnon's  music  of  old  time 

That  voice  of  stone ! 
So  marbled  they — and  so  sublime 

Their  solemn  tone. 


Good  Ruth  has  called  the  younker  folk 

To  di'ess  below ; 
Full  welcome  was  the  word  she  spoke, 

Down,  down  they  gc. 
The  cottage  quietude  is  broke, — 

Tlie  snow! — the  snow! 
413 


SNOW— A  WINTER  SKETCH. 

Now  rises  from  around  the  fire 

A  pleasant  strain ; 
Ye  giddy  sons  of  mirth,  retire ! 

And  ye  profane ! 
A  hymn  to  the  Eternal  Sire 

Goes  up  again. 

The  patriarchal  Book  divine, 

Upon  the  knee. 
Opes  where  the  gems  of  Judah  shine, 

(Sweet  minstrelsie  !) 
How  soars  each  heart  with  each  fair  line, 

Oh  God,  to  Thee! 


Around  the  altar  low  they  bend. 

Devout  in  prayer  ; 
As  snows  upon  the  roof  descend. 

So  angels  there 
Come  down  that  household  to  defend 

With  gentle  care. 


Now  sings  the  kettle  o'er  the  blaze ; 

The  buckwheat  heaps ; 
Rare  Mocha,  worth  an  Arab's  praise. 

Sweet  Susan  steeps ; 
The  old  round  stand  her  nod  obeys, 

And  out  it  leaps. 

Unerring  presages  declare 

The  banquet  near ; 
Soon  busy  appetites  are  there  ; 

And  disappear 
The  glories  of  the  ample  fare. 

With  thanks  sincere. 
4U 


HOYT. 

Now  tiny  snow-bii*ds  venture  nigh 

From  copse  and  spray, 
(Sweet  Strangers !    with  the  winter's  sky 

To  pass  away  ;) 
And  gather  crumbs  in  full  supply, 

For  all  the  day. 


Let  now  the  busy  hours  begin : 

Out  rolls  the  churn  ; 
Forth  hastes  the  farm-boy,  and  brings  in 

The  brush  to  burn  ; 
Sweep,  shovel,  scour,  sew,  knit,  and  spin, 

'Till  night's  return. 


To  delve  his  threshing  John  must  hie ; 

His  sturdy  shoe 
Can  all  the  subtle  damp  defy ; 

How  wades  he  through ! 
While  dainty  milkmaids  slow  and  shy. 

His  track  pursue. 


Each  to  the  hour's  allotted  care ; 

To  shell  the  corn  ; 
The  broken  harness  to  repair ; 

The  sleigh  t'  adorn  ; 
As  cheerful,  tranquil,  frosty,  fair. 

Speeds  on  the  morn. 


While  mounts  the  eddying  smoke  amain 

From  many  a  hearth, 
And  all  the  landscape  rings  again 

With  rustic  mirth  ; 
So  gladsome  seems  to  every  swain 

The  snowy  earth. 

415 


SIMMS. 


BLESSINGS  ON  CHILDREN. 


Blessings  on  the  blessing  children,  sweetest  gifts  of  Heaven  to  earth, 
Filling  all  the  heart  with  gladness,  filling  all  the  house  with  niirtli ; 
Bringing  with  them  native  sweetness,  pictures  of  the  primal  bloom 
^Miich  the  bliss  for  ever  gladdens,  of  the  region  whence  they  come ; 
Bringing  with  them  joyous  impulse  of  a  state  withouten  care. 
And  a  buoyant  faith  in  being,  which  makes  all  in  nature  fair ; 
Not  a  doubt  to  dim  the  distance,  not  a  grief  to  vex  the  nigh, 
And  a  hope  that  in  existence,  finds  each  hour  a  luxury ; 

416 


SIMMS. 

Going  singing,  bounding,  brightening — never  fearing  as  they  go, 
That  the  innocent  shall  tremble,  and  the  loving  find  a  foe  ; 
In  the  daylight,  in  the  starlight,  still  with  thought  that  freely  flies, 
Prompt  and  joyous,  with  no  question  of  the  beauty  in   the  skies  ; 
Genial  fancies  winning  raptures,  as  the  bee  still  sucks  her  store. 
All  the  present  still  a  garden  glean'd  a  thousand  times  before ; 
All  the  future,  but  a  region,  where  the  happy  serving  thought. 
Still  depicts  a  thousand  blessings,  by  the  winged  hunter  caught ; 
life  a  chase  where  blushing  pleasures  only  seem  to  strive  in  flight, 
Lingering  to  be  caught,  and  yielding  gladly  to  the  proud  delight ; 
As  the  maiden,  through  the  alleys,  looking  backward  as  she  flies, 
Woos   the  fond  pursuer  onward,  Avith   the  love-light   in  her  eyes. 
Oh !    the  happy  life  in  children,  still  restoring  joy  to  ours. 
Making  for  the  forest  music,  planting  for  the  wayside  flowers; 
Back  recalling  all  the  sweetness,  in  a  pleasure  pure  as  rare, 
Back  the  past  of  hope  and  rapture  bringing  to  the  heart  of  care. 
How,  as  swell  the  happy  voices,  bursting  through  the  shady  grove. 
Memories  take  the  place  of  sorrows,  time  restores  the  sway  to  love ! 
We  are  in  the  shouting  comrades,  shaking  off  the  load  of  years. 
Thought  forgetting,  strifes  and  trials,  doubts  and  agonies  and  tears ; 
We  are  in  the  bounding  urchin,  as  o'er  hill  and  plain  he  darts. 
Share  the  struggle  and  the  triumph,  gladdening  in  his  lioart  of  hearts  ; 
What  an  image  of  the  vigour  and  the  glorious  grace  we  knew, 
When  to  eager  youth  from  boyhood,  at  a  single  bound  we  grew ! 
Even  such  our  slender  beauty,  such  upon  our  cheek  the  glow. 
In  our  eyes  the  life  and  gladness — of  our  blood  the  overflow. 
Bless  the  mother  of  the  urchin  !    in  his  form  we  see  her  truth  : 
He  is  now  the  very  picture  of  the  memories  in  our  youth  ; 
Never  can  we  doubt  the  forehead,  nor  the  sunnv  flowin"-  hair. 
Nor  the  smiling  in   the  dimple  speaking  chin  and  cheek  so  fair: 
Bless  the  mother  of  the  young  one !    he  hatli  blended  in  his  grace, 
All  the  hope  and  joy  and  beauty,  kindling  once  in  either  face ! 

Oh !    the  happy  faith  of  children !    that  is  glad  in  all  it  sees, 
And  with  never  need  of  thinking,  pierces  still  its  mysteries ; 
In  simplicity  profoundest,  in  their  soul  abundance  blest. 
Wise  in  value  of  the  sportive,  and   in   restlessness  at  rest ; 

117  n  D 


BLESSINGS  ON  CHILDREN.   . 

Lacking  every  creed  yet  having  faith  so  kxrge  in  all  they  see, 
That  to  know  is  still  to  gladden,  and  'tis  rapture  but  to  be. 
Wliat  trim  fancies  bring  them  flowers ;  what  rare  spirits  walk  their  wood, 
What  a  wondrous  Avorld  the  moonlight  harbours  of  the  gay  and  good! 
Unto  them  the  very  tempest  walks  in  glories  grateful  still, 
And  the  lightning  gleams,  a  seraph,  to  persuade  them  to  the  hill : 
'Tis  a  sweet  and  loving  spirit,  that  throughout  the  midnight  rains. 
Broods  beside  the  shutter'd  windows,  and  with  gentle  love  complains ; 
And  how  wooing,  how  exalting,  with  the  richness  of  her  dyes, 
Spans  the  painter  of  the  rainbow,  her  bright  arch  along  the  skies, 
With  a  dream  like  Jacob's  ladder,  showing  to  the  fancy's  sight,  . 
How  'twere  easy  for  the  sad  one  to  escape  to  worlds  of  light ! 
Ah  !    the  wisdom  of  such  fancies,  and  the  truth  in  every  dream. 
That  to  faith  confiding  oiFers,  cheering  every  gloom,  a  gleam  ! 
Happy  hearts,  still  cherish  fondly  each  delusion  of  your  youth, 
Joy  is  born  of  well  believing,  and  the  fiction  wraps  the  truth. 


418 


WILLIS. 


UNSEEN    SPIRITS. 

The  sliadows  lay  along  Broadway — 
'Twas  near  the  twilight-tide — 

And  slowly  tliei-e  a  lady  fair 
Was  walking  in  her  pride. 

Alone  walked  she  ;   but,  viewlessly, 
Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet. 
And  Honour  charmed  the  air ; 

And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her, 
And  called  her  good  as  fair — 

For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 
She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 
From  lovers  warm  and  true — 

For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold, 
And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo — 

P>ut  lionoured  well  are  charms  to  sell 
If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  Avas  one  more  fair — 

A  slight  girl,  lilj^-pale ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail — 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked  foiloni, 

And  nothing  could  avail. 
4iy 


LITTLE  FLORENCE  GRAY. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray ; 

For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way ! — 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven 
By  man  is  curst  alway! 


LITTLE  FLORENCE  GRAY. 

I  WAS  in  Greece.     It  was  the  hour  of  noon, 
And  the  JEgean  wind  had  dropped  asleep 
Upon  Hymettus,  and  the  thymy  isles 
Of  Salamis  and  ^Egina  lay  hung 
Like  clouds  upon  the  bright  and  breathless  sea. 
I  had  climbed  up  th'  Acropolis  at  morn. 
And  hours  had  fled  as  time  will  in  a  dream 
Amid  its  deathless  ruins — for  the  air 
Is  full  gf  spirits  in  these  mighty  fanes, 
And  they  walk  with  you !      As  it  sultrier  grew, 
I  laid  me  down  within  a  shadow  deep 
Of  a  tall  column  of  the  Parthenon, 
And  in  an  absent  idleness  of  thought 
I  scrawled  upon  the  smooth  and  marble  base. 
Tell  me,  O  memory,  what  wrote  I  there? 
The  name  of  a  sweet  child  I  kneiv  at  Rome  1 

I  was  in  Asia.     'Twas  a  peerless  night 
Upon  the  plains  of  Sardis,  and  the  moon, 
Touching  my  eyelids  through  the  wind-stirred  tent, 
Had  witched  me  from  my  slumber.      I  arose, 
And  silently  stole  forth,  and  by  the  brink 

420 


WILLIS. 

Of  golden  "Pactolus,"  where  bathe  his  waters 
The  bases  of  Cybele's  columns  fair, 
I  paced  away  the  hours.      In  Avakeful  mood 
I  mused  upon  the  storied  jiast  awhile, 
Watching  the  moon,  that  with  the  same  mild  eye 
Had  looked  upon  the  mighty  Lybian  kings 
Sleeping  around  me — Croesus,  who  had  heaped 
Within  the  mouldering  portico  his  gold, 
And  Gyges,  buried  with  his  viewless  ring 
Beneath  yon  swelling  tumulus — and  then 
I  loitered  up  the  valley   to  a  small 
And  humbler  ruin,  where  the   undefiled* 
Of  the  Apocalypse  their  garments  kept 
Spotless ;    and  crossing  with  a  conscious  awe 
The  broken  threshold,  to  my  spirit's  eye 
It  seemed  as  if,  amid  the  moonlight,  stood 
"  The  angel  of  the  church  of  Sardis"   still ! 
And  I  again  passed  onward,  and  as  dawn 
Paled  the  bright  morning  star,  I  lay  me  down, 
Weary  and  sad,  beside  the  river's  brink. 
And  'twixt  the  moonlight  and  the  rosy  morn. 
Wrote  with  my  fingers  in  the  golden   "sands." 
Tell  me,  O  memory !    what  wrote  I  there  ? 
The  name  of  the  sweet  child  I  knew  at  Home  ! 

The  dust  is  old   upon  my  "  sandal-shoon," 
And  still  I  am  a  pilgrim  ;    I  have  roved 
From  wild  America  to  spicy  Ind, 
And  Avorshipped  at  innumerable  shrines 
Of  beauty,  and  the  painter's  art,  to  me. 
And  sculpture,  speak  as  with  a  living  tongue. 
And  of  dead  kingdoms,  I  recall  the  soul, 
Sitting  amid   their  ruins.      I  have  stored 


*  "Thou  liast  a  few  names  even  in  .Sardis  which  have  not  defiled  their  gar- 
ments; and  tliey  shall  walk  with  me  in  wliite  ;  for  they  are  worthy."— Ri;v. 
iii.  4. 

421 


LITTLE  FLORENCE  GRAY. 

My  memory  with  thoughts  that  can  allay 
Fever  and  sadness;    and  when  .life  gets  dim, 
And  I  am  overladen  in  my  years, 
Minister  to  me.     But  when  wearily 
The  mind  gives  over  toiling,  and,  with  eyes 
Open  but  seeing  not,  and  senses  all 
Lying  awake  within  their  chambers  fine. 
Thought  settles  like  a  fountain,  clear  and  calm- 
Far  in  its  sleeping  depths,  as  'twere  a  gem, 
Tell  me,  O  memory !    what  shines  so  fair  ? 
The  face  of  the  siveet  child  I  kneio  at  Rome  ! 


422 


ALFORD. 

HYMN    TO    THE    SEA, 

Who  shall  declare  the  secret  of  thy  birth, 
Thou  old  companion  of  the  circling  earth? 
And  having  marked  mth  keen  poetic  sight 

Ere  beast  or  happy  bird 

Through  the  vast  silence  stirred, 
Koll  back  the  folded  darkness  of  the  primal  night  ? 

Corruption-like,  thou  teemedst  in  the  graves 
Of  movddering  systems,  with  dark  weltering  waves 
Troubling  the  peace  of  the  first  mother's  womb ; 

Whose  ancient  awful  form, 

With  inlv  tossiu";  storm. 
Unquiet  heavings  kept — a  birth-place  and  a  tomb. 

Till  the  life-giving  Spirit  moved  above 
The  face  of  the  Avaters,  Avith  creative  love 
Warming  the  hidden  seeds  of  infant  light : 

What  time  the  mighty  Word 

Through  thine  abyss  was  heard. 
And  swam  from  out  thy  deeps  the  young  day  lieavenly  bright. 

Thou  and  tlie  earth,  twin-sisters,  as  they  say, 
In  the  old  prime  were  fashioned  in  the  day, 
And  therefore  thou  delightest  evermore 

With  her  to  lie,  and  play 

The  summer  hours  away, 
Curling  thy  loving  ripples  up  her  quiet  shore. 

She  is  married,  a  matron  long  ago. 
With   nations  at  her  side  ;    her  milk  doth  flow 

423 


Each  year;    but  thee  no  husband  dares  to  tame; 
Thy  wild  will  is  thine  own, 
Thy  sole  and  virgin  throne — 
Thy  mood  is  ever  changing — thy  resolve  the  same. 


Sunlight  and  moonlight  minister  to  thee  ; — 
O'er  the  broad  circle  of  the  shoreless  sea 

Heaven's  two  great  lights  for  ever  set  and  rise; 
While  the  round  vault  above, 
In  vast  and  silent  love, 
J>  gazing  down  upon  thee  with  his  hundred  eyes. 

424 


ALFORD. 

All  night  thou  utterest  forth  thy  solemn   moan, 
Counting  thy  weary  minutes  all  alone ; 

Then  in  the  morning  thou  dost  calmly  lie, 
Deep  blue,  ere  yet  the  sun 
His  day-work  hath  begun, 
Under  the  opening  windows  of  the  golden  sky. 

The  spirit  of  the  mountain  looks  on   thee 
Over  an  hundred  hills ;    quaint  shadows  flee 
Across  thy  marbled  mirror ;    brooding  lie 

Storm-mists  of  infant  cloud, 

With  a  sight-baifling  shroud 
Mantling  the  grey-blue  islands  in  the  Avestern  sky. 

Sometimes  thou  liftest  up  thine  hands  on  high 
Into  the  tempest-cloud  that  blurs  the  sky, 
Holdin":  rouah  dalliance  with  the  fitful  blast. 

Whose  stiff  breath,  Avhistling  shrill, 

Pierces  with  deadly  chill 
Tlie  wet  crew  feebly  clinging  to  their  shattered  mast. 

Foam-white  along  the  border  of  the  shore 
Thine  onward-leaping  billows  plunge  and  roar; 
While  o'er  the  pebbly  ridges  slowly  glide 

Cloaked  figures,  dim  and  grey. 

Through  the  thick  mist  of  spray. 
Watching  for  some  struck  vessel  in   the  boiling  tide. 

Daughter  and  darling  of  remotest  eld — 
Time's  childhood  and  Time's  age  thou  hast  beheld; 
His  arm  is  feeble  and  his  eye  is  dim — 
He  tells  old  tales  again — 
He  wearies  of  long  pain  ; — 
Thou  art  as  at  the  first :    thou  joui'neyedst  not  with  him. 


42c 


I 


THACKERAY. 
THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE. 

A  STREET  there  is  in  Paris  famous, 

For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields, 
Rue  Neuve  des  Petits  Champs  its  name  is — 

The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields  ; 
And  here's  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid, 

But  still  in  comfortable  case ; 
The  which  in  youth  I  oft  attended, 

To  eat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 


This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is — 

A  sort  of  soup,  or  broth,  or  brew. 
Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes. 

That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo ; 
Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  muscles,  safibrn, 

Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace ; 
All  these  you  eat  at  Terre's  tavern, 

In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed,  a  rich  and  savoury  stew  'tis  ; 

And  true  philosophers,  methinks. 
Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties, 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good  drinks. 
And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 

Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace, 
Nor  find  a  fast-day  too  afflicting, 

Which  served  him  up  a  Bouillabaisse. 

42G 


THACKERAY. 

I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is  ? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is,  as  before  ; 
The  smiling,  red-cheeked  e'caillere  is 

Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 
Is  Tekke  still  alive  and  able? 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace  ; 
He'd  come  and  smile  before  your  table, 

And  hoped  you  liked  your  Bouillabaisse. 

We  enter ;  nothing's  changed  or  older. 

"  How's  Monsieur  Teree,  waiter,  pray  ?" 
The  waiter  stares  and  shrugs  his  shoulder  ; — 

"  Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a  day." 
"  It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner. 

So  honest  Terre's  run  his  race  ?" 
"What  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner?" 

"  Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse  f 

"  Oh,  oui.  Monsieur,"  's  the  waiter's  answer ; 

"  Quel  vin  Monsieur  desire-t-il  ?" 
"  Tell  me  a  good  one."      "  That  I  can,  sir ; 

The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal." 
"So  Terre's  gone,"   I  say,  and  sink  in 

My  old  accustomed  corner-place  ; 
"  He's  done  with  feasting  and  Avith  drinkin<r 

With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse." 

My  old  accustomed  corner  here  is, 

The  table  still  is  in   the  nook  ; 
Ah !    vanished  many  a  busy  year  is, 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I  took. 
When  first  I  saw  ye.    Can  luoghi, 

I'd  scarce  a  beard  upon   my  face. 
And  now  a  grizzled,  grim  old  fogy, 

I  sit  and  wait  for  Bouilhibaisse. 

427 


C5 


THE  BxVLLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE. 

Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty 

Of  early  days,  here  met  to  dine  ? 
Come,  waiter !  quick,  a  flagon  crusty — 

I'll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 
The  kind  old  voices   and  old  faces 

My  memory  can  quick  retrace  ; 
Around  tlie  board  they  take  their  places. 

And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 


There's  Jack  has  made  a  wondrous  marriage  ; 

There's  laughing  Tom  is  laughing  yet ; 
There's  brave  Augustus  drives  his  carriage  ; 

There's  poor  old  Fred  in  the  'Gazette  ; 
On  James's  head  the  grass  is  growing : 

Good  Lord  !     The '  world  has  wagged  apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  Claret  flomng, 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 

Ah  me !    how  quick  the  days  are  flitting! 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that's   gone. 
When  here  I'd  sit,  as  now  I'm  sitting. 

In  this  same  place — but  not  alone. 
A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 

A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up. 
And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me 

— There's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 

***** 

I  drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes  ; 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 

In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 
Welcome  the  wine,  whate'er  the  seal  is  ; 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart,  whate'er  the  meal   is. 

— Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse. 

428 


THACKERAY. 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY. 

The  play  is  done  ;    the  curtain  drops, 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell: 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task ; 

And,  when  he's  laughed  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that's  any  thing  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends. 

Let's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme, 
And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends, 

As  fits  the  merry  Christmas  time. 
On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  pai'ts. 

That  Fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play ; 
Good-night !    with  honest  gentle  hearts 

A  kindly  greeting  go  alway ! 

Good-night! — I'd  say,  the  griefs,  the  joys, 

Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page, 
The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age. 
I'd  say,  your  woes  were  not  less  keen. 

Your  hopes  more  vain  than  those  of  men 
Your  pangs  or  pleasui'cs  of  fifteen 

At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 

I'd  say  we  suffer  and  we  strive. 

Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys  ; 

With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five. 
As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys, 

42'.' 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY. 

And  if  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 

Pray  Heaven  that  early  Love  and  Truth 
May  never  wholly  pass  away. 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I'd  say,  how  fate  may  change  and  shift; 
The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool, 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift. 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 

The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown, 
The  knave  be  lifted  over  all, 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave  ! 
Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine, 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave? 
We  bow  to  Heaven  that  willed  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow, 

That's  free  to  give  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit: 

Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state? 
His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 
Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 

To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus? 
Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we'll  kneel, 

Confessing  Heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  advance, 
Dear  hopes,  dear  fi-iends,  untimely  killed ; 

Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance. 
And  longing  passion  vuifulfiUed. 

430 


THACKERAY. 

Amen !    whatever  fate  be  sent, 

Pray  God  tlie  heart  may  kindly  glow, 

Although  the  head  with  cai-es  be  bent, 
And  whitened  with  the  whiter  snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part. 
And  bow  before  the  Awful  Will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 
Who  misses,  or  who  wins  the  prize? 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can : 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young ! 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays  ;) 
The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 

Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days : 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then : 
Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said, 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men. 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth  ; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 
And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth. 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth. 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still — 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth. 

To  men  of  gentle  Avill. 


431 


TENNYSON. 


THE   MAY    QUEEN. 


You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear ; 

To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year ; 

Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest  merriest  day  ; 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'   the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

There's  many  a  black  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as  mine  ; 

There's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there's  Kate  and  Caroline : 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land  they  say, 

So  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'   the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never  wake, 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break : 

But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands  gay. 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

432 


TENNYSON. 

As  I  came  up  the  vallej,  whom  think  ye  shoukl  I  see, 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree? 

He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave  him  yesterday, — 

But  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  in  white. 

And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a  flash  of  light. 

They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  what  they  say, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

They  say  he's  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be : 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother, — ^vliat  is  that  to  me  ? 

There's  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  t\'oo  me  any  summer  day, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  INIay,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  Mav. 

Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green. 

And  you'll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen ; 

For  the  shepherd-lads  on  every  side  'ill  come  from  far  aA\'ay, 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  ]May. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  Avov'n  its  wa^y  bowers. 
And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 
And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fii-e  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  Mav. 

The  night-AAinds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow-grass, 
And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they  pass ; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  Avhole  of  the  live-long  day. 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  ]May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still, 

And  the  cowslip  and   the  crowfoot  are  over  all   tlie  liill, 

And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance   ai.d  play, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call   me  early,  mother  dear. 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year ; 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest  day, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

433  E  E 


NEAV-YEAR  S    EVE. 

If  you're  waking  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 

For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year: 

It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see. 

Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould,  and  think  no  more  of  me. 

To-nio^ht  I  saw  the  sun  set:   he  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace  of  mind ; 
And  the  New-year's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers ;    we  had  a  merry  day : 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  Green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May  ; 
And  we  danced  about  the  May-pole  and  in  the  hazel  copse. 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney-tops. 

There's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills :    the  frost  is  on  the  pane : 
I  only  Avish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again: 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt,  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high : 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

The  building  rook  'ill  caw  from  the  Avindy  tall  elm-tree, 
And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  tlie  swalloAv  'ill  come  back  again  Avith  summer  o'er  the  wave,— 
But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 

434 


TENNYSON. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine, 
In  the  early  early  morning  the  summer  sun  'ill  shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  barn  upon  the  hill, 
When  you  are  warm  asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  Avaning  light 
You'll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night ; 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
•On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 

You'll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade, 
And  you'll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am  lowly  laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother;    I  shall  hear  you  Avhen  you  pass, 
^Vith  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you'll  forgive  me  now; 
You'll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  upon  my  cheek  and  brow ; 
Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  w^ccp,  nor  let  your  gi'ief  be  wild, 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother, — you  have  another  child. 

If  I  can  I'll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place ; 
Though  you'll  not  see*  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  your  face  ; 
Though  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken  Avhat  you  say, 
And  be  often,  often  with  you,  when  you  think  I'm  far  away. 

Good-night,  good-night,  when  I  have  said  good-night  for  evermore, 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door; 
Don't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green : 
She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 

She'll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor : 
Let  her  take  'em :    they  are  hers :    I  shall  never  garden  more : 
But  tell  lier,  when  I'm  gone,  to  train  the  rose-bush   that  I  set 
About  the  parlour-windoAv  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother:    call  me  before  the  day  is  born. 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn  ; 
But  I  Avould  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 
So,  if  you're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 

43.J 


CONCLUSION. 

I  thought  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am ; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 

How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year ! 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet's  here. 

O  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies, 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that  cannot  rise. 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all   the  flowers  that  blow, 
And  sweeter  far  is  death   than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 

It  seemed  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun. 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and  yet  His  will  be  done ! 
But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  long  before  I  find  release ; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 

O  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice,  and  on  his  silver  hair! 
And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there ! 
0  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart,  and  on  his  silver  head! 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

436 


TENNYSON. 

He  show'd  rue  all  the  mercy,  for  he  taught  me  all  the  sin  : 
Now,  though  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there's  One  will  let  me  in : 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again,  it'  that  could  be, 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

I  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat, 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning  meet : 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morn  in  2;  I  heard  the  angels  call ; 
It  was  Avhen  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  Avas  over  all ; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began   to  roll. 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear ; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here ; 
With  all  my  strength  I  prayed  for  both,  and  so  I  felt  resigned. 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on   the  wind. 

I  thought  that  it  was  foncy,  and  I  listcn'd  in  my  bed. 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I  know  not  what  Avas  said ; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping;    and  I  said,   "It's  not  for  them:    it's  mine.' 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bars, 
Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven,  and  die  among  the  stars. 

So  now  I  think  my  lime  is  near.      I  trust  it  is.      I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  ha^■e  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day. 
But,  Effie,  you  nuist  comfort   /irr  when  I  am  past  awny. 

And   .«ay  to  Ivobin   a   kind   word,  and   tidl   him   not   to  fret; 
There's  many  worthier  than   T,  Avould  make  him  happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived — I  cannot  ti'll — I  might   liave  boon   liis  wife  ; 
But  all  tliese  tilings  have  ceased  to  be,  witli   my  desire  of  life. 

437 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 

O  look !    the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow ; 

He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know. 

And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may  shine — 

Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands   than  mine. 

O  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is  done 

'die  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  the  sun — 

For  ever  and  for  ever  with  those  just  souls  and  true — 

And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan?    why  make  we  such  ado? 

For  ever  and  for  eve:*,  all  in  a  blessed  home — 

And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  Effie  come ; 

To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast — 

And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


?%^  -•  i&^'^Sfc^H^'^^^i^SiSfeikUilfe 


438 


.^:^r-r::^^x 


MORTE  D'ARTIIUR. 


So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  ■winter  sea; 

439 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR. 

Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 

Had  faH'n  in  Lyonness.  about  their  Lord, 

King  Arthur :    then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 

The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 

Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights. 

And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 

A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 

That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 

On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 

Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  Avas  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
AVhereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep — the  men  I  loved.     I  think  that  Ave 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time. 
Delight  our  souls  Avith  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
AValking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  Avithout  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Tliou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride :    for  thou  rememberest  hoAV 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  Avonderful, 
Holding  the  sAvord — and  how  I  roAv'd  across 
And  took  it,  and  haA'e  Avorn  it,  like  a  king: 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftcrtime,  this  also  shall  be  knoAvn : 
But  noAv  delay  not:    take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere : 
Watch  Avhat  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  BediA'ei'e : 

HO 


TENNYSON. 

"  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'   the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He,  stepping  down 
By  zig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, - 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  Avay  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw:    but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags. 
That  whistled  stiff'  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which  I  gave  ? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?    or  what  hast  heard  ?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bcdivcrc : 
"I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in   the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on   the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale: 
"  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true   answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow' d,  either  hand, 

441 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 

Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bad  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud. 

"And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the  earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done? 
What  harm,  luidone  ?    deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
Tlie  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumours  of  a  doubt  ?    but  were  this  kept. 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms. 
Saying,  '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honour  and  much  fame  were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  Kins. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily: 

442 


TEISTNYSON. 

"Wliat  is  it  thou  hast  seen?    or  what  hast  heard?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  ^vrath : 
"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightlv,  traitor-hearted  !     Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 
Laid  widow' d  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.      I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure   of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence: 
But,  if  tliou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran. 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd  the  sword. 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.     The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  solendnur  of  the  moon. 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn. 
Seen  whei'c  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur : 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  sui'fuce,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in   tlie  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the   King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath : 
"Now  sec  I  by  thine  eyes   that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out:    what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen?" 

443 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw. 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  li\es  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  Avith  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  ai'm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  Avonderful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard ; 
"  My  end  draws  nigh ;    'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  Aveight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin ;    yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm. 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And  Avould  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk'd.  King  Arthur  panted  hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sigh'd  the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear  "  Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  SAviftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge. 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.      His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash' d  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 

444 


TENNYSON. 

The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him,  as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo !    the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge. 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them ;    and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  "with  stately  forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  di-eam — by  these 
Three  Queens  with  cro-vvns  of  gold — and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes. 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "Place  me  in  the  barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King,  and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and  chafed  his  hands, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud. 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood:    for  all  his  face  was  white 
And  colourless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd  with  drops 
Of  onset;    and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  fi'om  the  diiis-thronc — were  parch'd  with  dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  A\'ith  tlie  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a  shattered  colunni  lay  the  King ; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 

445 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 

Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
"Ah!    my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes 'if 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  kound  table  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

And  slowly  answer'd  Arthur  from  the  barge : 
"  The  old  order  change th,  yielding  place  to  new. 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 
Comfort  thyself:    what  comfort  is  in  me? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  Avithin  himself  make  pvu'e !    but  thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again. 
Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wlierefore,  let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain. 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  jirayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  w^ho  call  them  friend"? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 

446 


Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;    but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow' (1,  happy,  fair  ^^■itll  orchard-lawns 
And  bowTry  hollows  crowni'd  with  summer  sea, 
Wliere  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  Avound." 

447 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR. 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 


448 


EDWARD  GRAY 

Saveet  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder  town 

Met  me  walking  on  yonder  way, 
"And  have  you  lost  your  heart?"  she  said; 

"And  are  you  married  yet,  Edward  Gray?" 


Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me  : 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away : 

"  Sweet  Emma  Moreland,  love  no  more 
Can   touch   the  heart  of  Edward  Gray 

449 


K  F 


EDWARD  GRAY. 

"Ellen  Adair  she  loved  me  well, 

Against  her  father's  and  mother's  will : 

To-day  I  sat  for  an  hour  and  wept, 
By  Ellen's  gi'ave,  on  the  windy  hill. 

"Shy  she  Avas,  and  I  thought  her  cold;  . 

Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over  the  sea; 
Fill'd  I  Avas  with   folly  and  spite, 

When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for  me. 

"Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I  said! 

Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day : 
'You're  too  slight  and  fickle,'  I  said, 

'To  trouble  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray.' 

"There  I  put  my  face  in  the  gi-ass — 
Whisper'd,  '  Listen  to  my  despair : 

I  repent  me  of  all  I  did : 
Speak  a  little,  Ellen  Adair!' 

"Then  I  took  a  pencil,  and  wrote 

On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I  lay, 
'  Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair ; 

And  here  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray!' 

"Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 
And  fly,  like  a  bird,  from  tree  to  tree : 

But  I  will  love  no  more,  no  more. 
Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me. 

"Bitterly  wept  I  over  the  stone: 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away : 

There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair ! 

And  there  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray!" 


450 


THE  GOOSE. 

I  KNEW  an  old  Avife  lean  and  poor, 
Her  raofs  scarce  held  together  ; 

There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 
And  it  was  windy  weather. 

He  held  a  goose  upon  his  arm, 

He  utter'd  rhyme  and  reason, 
"  Here,  take  the  goose,  and  keep  you  Marm, 

It  is  a  stormy  season." 


She  caught  the  white  goose  by  the  leg, 
A  goose — 'twas  no  great  matter. 

The  goose  let  fall  a  golden  egg 
With  cackle  and  with  clatter. 

451 


THE  GOOSE. 

She  dropt  the  goose,  and  caught  the  pelf, 
And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbours ; 

And  bless'd  herself,  and  cursed  herself. 
And  rested  from  her  labours. 


And  feeding  high,  and  living  soft, 
Grew  plump  and  able-bodied  ; 

Until  the  grave  churchwarden  doff'd. 
The  parson  smirk'd  and  nodded. 


So  sitting,  served  by  man  and  maid. 
She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder : 

But  ah !    the  more  the  white  goose  laid 
It  clack'd  and  cackled  louder. 


It  clutter'd  here,  it  chuckled  there  ; 

It  stirr'd  the  old  wife's  mettle : 
She  shifted  in  her  elbow-chair. 

And  hurl'd  the  pan  and  kettle. 

"A  quinsy  choke  thy  cursed  note!" 
Then  wax'd  her  anger  stronger. 

"  Go,  take  the  goose,  and  wring  her  tliroat, 
I  will  not  bear  it  longer." 


*o^ 


Then  yelp'd  the  cur,  and  yawl'd  the  cat ; 

Ran  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gammer. 
The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew  that, 

And  fiird  the  house  with  clamour. 


As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 
They  flounder'd  all  together, 

There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 
And  it  was  windy  weather: 

452 


TENNYSON. 

He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm, 
He  utter'd  words  of  scorning ; 

"  So  keep  you  cokl,  or  keep  you  warm, 
It  is  a  stormy  morning.' 


5> 


The  Avild  Avind  rang  from  park  and  plain, 
And  round  the  attics  rumbled, 

Till  all  the  tables  danced  again. 
And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled. 

The  glass  blew  in,  the  fire  blew  out, 
The  blast  was  hard  and  harder. 

Her  cap  blew  off,  her  gown  blew  up, 
And  a  whirlwind  clear'd  the  larder; 

And  while  on  all  sides  breaking  loose 
Her  household  fled  the  danger. 

Quoth  she,   "  The  Devil  take  the  goose, 
And  God  forget  the  stranger !" 


453 


Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  "woidd  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 


O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

Tliat  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 
454 


TENNYSON. 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


4r.5 


COOKE. 
FLORENCE  VANE. 

I  LOVED  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Florence  Vane ; 
My  life's  bright  dream,  and  early 

Hath  come  again ; 
I  renew  in  my  fond  vision, 

My  heart's  dear  pain, 
My  hope,  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane. 

The  ruin  lone  and  hoary. 

The  ruin  old. 
Where  thou  didst  mark  my  stor}', 

At  even  told, — 
That  spot — the  hues  Elysian 

Of  sky  and  plain — 
I  treasure  in  my  vision, 

Florence  Vane. 

Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime  ; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme ; 
Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main. 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane! 

But,  fairest,  coldest  Avonder  ! 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under — 

Alas  the  day ! 

456 


COOKE. 

And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain — 
To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vane. 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep, 
The  pansies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep  ; 
May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Never  wane 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane  ! 


YOUNG  ROSALIE  LEE. 

I  LOVE  to  forget  ambition, 

And  hope,  in  the  mingled  thought 
Of  valley,  and  wood,  and  meadow, 

Whei'e,  Avhilom,  my  spirit  caught 
Artection's  holiest  breathings — 

AVhere  under  the  skies,  with  me 
Young  Rosalie  roved,  aye  drinking 

From  joy's  bright  Castaly. 

r  think  of  the  valley  and  river, 

Of  the  old  wood  bright  with  blossoms ; 
Of  the  pure  and  chastened  gladness 

Upspringing  in  our  bosoms. 
T   think  of  the  lonely  turtle 

So  tongued  with  melanclioly ; 
Of  the  hue  of  the  drooping  moonlight, 

And  the  starlight  pure  and  holy. 
457 


YOUNG  EOSALIE  LEE. 

Of  the  beat  of  a  heart  most  tender, 

The  sigh  of  a  shell-tinct  lip 
As  soft  as  the  land-tones  wandering 

Far  leagues  over  ocean  deep  ; 
Of  a  step  as  light  in  its  falling 

On  the  breast  of  the  beaded  lea 
As  the  fall  of  the  faery  moonlight 

On  the  leaf  of  yon  tulip  tree. 

I  think  of  these — and  the  murmur 

Of  bird,  and  katydid, 
Whose  home  is  the  grave-yard  cypress, 

Whose  goblet  the  honey-reed. 
And  then  I  weep!    for  Rosalie 

Has  gone  to  her  early  rest ; 
And  the  green-lipped  reed  and  the  daisy 

Suck  sweets  from  her  maiden  breast. 


458 


WHITTIER. 


MAUD    MULLER. 


Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow,  sweet  with  hay. 

]ieneath  her  torn  liut  gk)we(l   tlic  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

459 


MAUD  MULLER. 

Singing,  she  -wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down. 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  tilled  her  breast — 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rpde  slowly  dowTi  the  lane. 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  floAved 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blusiied  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"  Thanks !"  said  the  Judge,  "  a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaflTed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees ;. 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  tlie  west  would  bring  foul  AA'eather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown. 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

4G0 


WHITTIER. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed :   "  Ah,  me ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine. 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"  My  ftither  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat ; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"  I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 

And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor. 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"  "Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay : 

"No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds. 
And  health  and  ([uiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud  and  cold. 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on. 
And  Maud  was  left  in   the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon. 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the   well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

4GI 


MAUD  MULLER. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go: 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  way-side  well  instead ; 

And  closed,  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms, 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret  pain 
"  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again ! 

"Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day. 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor. 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring-brook  fall 
Over  the  road-side,  through  the  Avail, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein : 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace. 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

462 


WHITTIER. 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  lo\-e  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again. 
Saying  only,  "It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

God  pity  them  both !    and  pity  us  all. 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these :   "  It  might  have  been !" 

Ah,  well !    for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
EoU  the  stone  from  its  srave  awav ! 


GONE, 

Another  hand  is  beckoning  us, 

Another  call  is  given ; 
And  glows  once  more  with  Angel-steps 

The  path  which  reaches  Heaven. 

Our  young  and  gentle  friend  whose  smile 
Made  brighter  summer  hours, 

Amid  the  frosts  of  autumn  time 
Has  left  us,  with  the  flowers. 

4C3 


GONE. 

No  paling  of  the  cheek  of  bloom 

Forewarned  us  of  decay; 
No  shadow  from  the  Silent  Land 

Fell  round  our  sister's  way. 

The  light  of  her  young  life  went  down, 

As  sinks  behind  the  hill 
The  glory  of  a  setting  star — 

Clear,  suddenly,  and  still. 

As  pure  and  sweet,  her  fair  brow  seemed — 

Eternal  as  the  sky; 
And  like  the  brook's  low  song,  her  voice — 

A  sound  which  could  not  die. 

And  half  we  deemed  she  needed  not 

The  changing  of  her  sphere. 
To  give  to  Heaven  a  Shining  One, 

Who  walked  an  Angel  here. 

The  blessing  of  her  quiet  life 

Fell  on  us  like  the  dew; 
And  good  thoughts,  where  her  footsteps  pressed. 

Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. 

Sweet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds 

Were  in  her  very  look ; 
We  read  her  face,  as  one  who  reads 

A  true  and  holy  book: 

The  measure  of  a  blessed  hymn. 
To  which  our  hearts  could  move ; 

The  breathing  of  an  inward  psalm ; 
A  canticle  of  love. 

We  miss  her  in  the  place  of  prayer. 

And  by  the  hearth-fire's  light ; 
We  pause  beside  her  door  to  hear 

Once  more  her  sweet  "Good-night!" 

4G4 


WHITTIER. 

There  seems  a  shadow  on  tlie  day, 

Her  smile  no  longer  cheers ; 
A  dimness  on  the  stars  of  nisht. 

Like  eyes  that  look  through  tears. 

Alone  unto  our  Father's  Avill 
One  thought  hath  reconciled ; 

That  He  whose  love  exceedeth  ours 
Hath  taken  home  His  chUd. 

Fold  her,  oh  Father !    in  thine  arms, 

And  let  her  henceforth  be 
A  messenger  of  love  between 

Our  human  hearts  and  Thee. 

Still  let  her  mild  rebuking  stand 

Between  us  and  the  wrong, 
And  her  dear  memory  serve  to  make 

Our  faith  in  Goodness  strong. 

And,  grant  that  she  who,  trembling,  here 

Distrusted  all  her  powers. 
May  welcome  to  her  holier  home 

The  well  beloved  of  ours. 


4Gr>  G  o 


POE. 


THE  RAVEN. 


Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore — 
"While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping. 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"  Tis  some  visitor,"   I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 
466 


POE. 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow; — vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating 
"'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door; 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more.*' 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;    hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"  Sir,"   said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I   implore ; 
But  the  fact  is  I  Avas  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping. 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
That  I  scai'ce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — here  I  opened  Avide  the  door ; — 

Darkness  there  and  nothinor  more. 


*to 


Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to  dream  before ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token. 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word,  "Lenore?" 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word,  "Lcnoi'e!" — 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning. 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  something  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window  lattice  ; 
Let  me  see,  'then,  what  thereat  is  and  this  mystery  explore — 
I^et  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery  explore ; — 

'Tis  tlic   wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter. 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 

4()7 


THE  KAVEN. 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;    not  a  minute  stopped  or  stayed  he ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling. 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 

"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn   and   shaven,  thou,"  I  said,   "  art  «ure  no 

craven, 
Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Eaven  wandering  from  the  Nightly  shore — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,   "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse   so  plainly, 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore ; 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 

Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door — 

Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  farther  then  he  uttered ;  not  a  feather  then  he  fluttered — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered  "  Other  friends  have  flown  before — 
On  the  moi'row  he  Avill  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said  "Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"Doubtless,"  said  I,   "what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  Avhom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore ' 

Of  '  Never — nevei'more.'  " 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling. 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and  bust  and  door; 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 

4G8 


FOE. 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 
AVhat  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's  core  ; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated  o'er, 
Bnt  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp-light  gloating  o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 

Swung  by  Seraphim  Avhose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 

"  Wretch,"  I  cried,   "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee — by  these  angels  he  hath 

sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore ! 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,   "Nevermore" 

"  Prophet !"    said  I,   "  thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! — 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore. 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted — 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 

Is  there — is  there   balm  in  Gilead? — tell  mc — tell  me,  I  implore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"    said  I,   "thing  of  evil — prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we  both  adore — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"  Be    that  word    our    sign    of  parting,  bird   or  fiend !"    I  shrieked,  up- 
starting— 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 

4G9 


THE  RAVEN; 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken ! — quit  the  bust  above  my  door ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my  door!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,   "Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door ; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 

And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor ; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  ! 


470 


LONGFELLOW. 


HYMN  TO   THE   NIGHT. 


'AaTvaaiTj,  Tpi'/SAiaro^. 
I  HEARD  the  trailing  gaj-ments  of  llie  Night 

Sweep  through  licr  marble  halls! 
I  saw  her  .«able  skirts  all   fringed  with  light 
t'rom  the   celestial  walls ! 

471 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 


I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 


I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 


PVom  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose  ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there. 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

0  holy  Night!-  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before ; 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lijis  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace!    Peace!    Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight. 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night! 


472 


<V/    (J    /,0W4%.; 


RESIGNATION. 

There  is  no  flock,  however  Avatclied  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair ! 


The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying. 

And  mournings  for  the  dead ; 
'J'he  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  ci^-ing, 

Will  not  be  comforted ! 

473 


RESIGNATION. 

Let  us  be  patient!     These  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapours, 

Amid  these  earthly  damps ; 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers. 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death !     What  seems  so  is  transition  ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead, — the  child  of  our  affection, — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution. 

She  lives,  Avhom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air; 
Year  after  year  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken. 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

474 


LONGFELLOW. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child ; 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion. 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest, — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay ; 
But  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing. 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


475 


KING  WITLAF'S  DRINKING-HORN. 


WiTLAF,  a  king  of  the  Saxons, 
Ere  yet  his  last  he  breathed, 

To  the  merry  monks  of  Croyland 
His  drinking-horn  bequeathed, — 
47G 


LONGFELLOW. 

That,  whenever  they  sat  at  their  revels, 
And  drank  from  the  golden  bowl, 

They  might  remember  the  donor. 
And  breathe  a  prayer  for  his  soul. 


So  sat  they  once  at  Christmas, 
And  bade  the  goblet  pass  ; 

In  their  beards  the  red  wine  glistened 
Like  dew-drops  in  the  grass. 
477 


KING  WITLAF'S  DRINKING-HORN. 

They  drank  to  the  soul  of  Witlaf, 
They  drank  to  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  to  each  of  the  Twelve  Apostles, 
Who  had  preached  his  holy  word. 

They  drank  to  the  Saints  and  Martyrs 

Of  the  dismal  days  of  yore, 
And  as  soon  as  the  horn  was  empty 

They  remembered  one  Saint  more. 

And  the  reader  droned  from  the  pulpit, 
Like  the  murmur  of  many  bees, 

The  legend  of  good  Saint  Guthlac, 
And  Saint  Basil's  homilies ; 

Till  the  great  bells  of  the  convent, 
From  their  prison  in  the  tower, 

Guthlac  and  Bartholoma^us, 
Proclaimed  the  midnight  hour. 

And  the  Yule-log  cracked  in  the  chimney. 

And  the  Abbot  bowed  his  head, 
And  the  flamelets  flapped  and  flickered, 

But  the  Abbot  was  stark  and  dead. 

Yet  still  in  his  pallid  fingers 
He  clutched  the  golden  bowl, 

In  which,  like  a  pearl  dissolving, 
Had  sunk  and  dissolved  his  soul. 

But  not  for  this  their  revels 

The  jovial  monks  forbore. 
For  they  cried,   "  Fill  high  the  goblet ! 

We  must  drink  to  one  Saint  more!" 


478 


EXCELSIOR. 

The  shades  of  nidit  were  falling;  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device. 
Excelsior ! 


His  brow   was   sad  ;    his   eye   Ijeneath, 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion   run"' 
The  accents  of  lliat    uiikn<i\vn   tonirue, 
Excelsior ! 
47'J 


EXCELSIOR. 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright ; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan. 
Excelsior ! 

"  Try  not  the  Pass !"  the  old  man  said ; 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide !"' 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 

"O,  stay,"   the  maiden  said,  "and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast  r" 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye. 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche!" 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night ; 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height. 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air. 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  Avas  found. 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device. 
Excelsior ! 
480 


LONGFELLOW. 

There,  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay. 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior ! 


481  II   II 


TUCKERMAN. 


WEST    POINT. 


Wild  umbrajce  far  around  me  clin"-s 
To  breezy  knoll  and  hushed  ravine, 

And  o'er  each  rocky  headland  flings 
Its  mantle  of  refreshing  green. 
482 


TUCKERMAN. 

The  echoes  that  so  boldly  runs 

When  cannon  flashed  from  steep  to  steep, 
And  Freedom's  airj  challenge  flung, 

In  each  romantic  valley  sleep. 

His  counsels  here  our  chieftain  breathed. 
Here  roved  his  mild,  undaunted  eye, 

When  yon  lone  fort  Avith  thickets  wreathed, 
Held  captive  Britain's  gallant  spy. 

Fit  home  to  rear  a  nation's  youth 
By  self-control  to  nerve  the  will. 

Through  knowledge  gain  expansive  truth. 
And  with  high  aims  life's  circle  All. 

How  grateful  is  the  sudden  change 
From  arid  pavements  to  the  grass, 

From  narrow  streets  that  thousands  range, 
To  meadows  where  June's  zephyrs  pass! 

Beneath  the  cliffs  the  river  steals 
In  darksome  eddies  to  the  shore, 

But  midway  every  sail  reveals 
Keflected  on  its  crystal  floor. 

In  tranquil   mood  the  cattle  walk 
Along  the  verdant  marge  to  feed. 

While  poised  upon   the  mullein  stalk 
The  chirping  red-bird  pecks  the  seed. 

Low  murmurs  in  the  foliage  bred. 
The  clear  horizon's  azm-e  line, 

Fresh  turf  elastic  to  the  tread. 
And  leafy  canopies  are  thine. 

483 


WEST  POINT. 

White  fleecy  clouds  move  slowly  by, 
How  cool  their  shadows  fall  to-dav ! 

A  moment  on   the  hills  they  lie, 
And  then  like  spirits  glide  away. 

Amid  the  herbage,  yesternight 

His  web  the  cunning  spider  threw, 

And  now,  as  sparkling  diamonds  bright, 
It  glistens  with  the  pendent  dew. 

Gay  butterflies  dart  on  and  sink 
O'er  the  sweet  blossoms  of-  the  pea, 

And  from  the  clover's  globe  of  pink 
Contented  hums  the  downy  bee. 

In  all  his  varied  beauty  glows 

Deep  meaning  for  the  thoughtful  heart. 

As  it  were  fain  to  teach  repose. 
And  lofty  confidence  impart. 

How  vivid  to  my  fancy  no^\', 

Uprise  the  forms  that  life  redeem  I 

The  ardent  eye — the  open  brow, 
And  tender  smile  beside  me  se(5m. 

For  Nature's  presence  gathers  back 

The  deeds  that  grace,  the  loves  that  cheer, 

And  as  her  holy  steps  we  track, 

Hope's  rainbow  breaks  through  sorrow's  tear. 


484 


. .-y^.  .•.*.*ft:yJ„#N 


;j'«\.fsJ^J;.ir 


HOLMES. 


THE  LAST  LEAF. 


I  SAAV  liiin  once  before, 
As  he  passed  l)y  the  door, 

And  again 
The  pavement  stones  resonnd 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his   cane. 
485 


THE  LAST  LEAF. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
V>y  the  Crier  on  his .  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets. 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 
And  he  shakes  liis  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom. 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said, — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago, — 
That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 
And  a  crook  is  in  his  back. 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 
At  him  here ; 
48G 


HOLMES. 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat. 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that. 
Are  so  queer! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, — 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bousch 

Where  I  cliuir. 


487 


^^^'f^l'}/  ii  iS 


ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL. 


This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine — it  tells  of  good  old  times, 
Of  joyous  days  and  jolly  nights,  and  merry  Christmas  chimes ; 
They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but  honest,  brave  and  true, 
That  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when  this  old  bowl  was  new. 

488 


HOLMES. 

A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar — so  runs  the  ancient  tale — 
'Twas  hammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith,  whose  arm  was  like  a  flail ; 
And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes,  for  fear  his  strength  should  fail. 
He  wiped  his  brow,  and  quaffed  a  cup  of  good  old  Flemish  ale. 

'Twas  purchased  by  an  English  squire  to  please  his  loving  dame, 
Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a  longing  for  the  same ; 
And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another  twig  was  found, 
'Twas  filled  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot,  and  handed  smoking  round. 

But,  changing  hands,  it  reached  at  length  a  Puritan  divine, 

AVho  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take  a  little  wine. 

But  hated  punch  and  prelacy;  and  so  it  was,  perhaps, 

He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  conventicles  and  schnaps. 

And  then,  of  course,  you  know  what's  next — it  left  the  Dutchman's  shore 
With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came, — a  hundred  souls  and  more, — 
Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their  new  abodes — 
To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least  a  hundred  loads. 

'Twas  on  a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the  night  was  closing  dim, 
Allien  old  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl,  and  filled  it  to  the  brim, 
The  liltle  Captain  stood  and  stirred  the  posset  Avith  his  sword, 
And  all  his  sturdy  men  at  arms  were  ranged  about  the  board. 

He  poured  the  fiery  hollands  in — the  man  that  never  feared — 
He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and  wiped  his  yellow  beard ; 
And  one  by  one  the  musketeers,  the  men  that  fought  and  prayed. 
All  drank  as  'twere  their  mother's  milk,  and  not  a  man  afraid ! 

That  night,  aftVighted  from  his  nest,  the  screaming  eagle  flew, 
He  heard  the  Pequot's  ringing  whoop,  the  soldier's  wild  halloo  ; 
And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  lie  taught  to  kith  and   kin. 
"Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find  he  smells  of  hollands  gin  I'' 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more  had  spread  their  leaves  and  snows. 
A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down  each  little  cherub's  nose  ; 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but  not  in  mirth   or  joy, 
'Twas  mingled  by  a  mother's  hand  to  cheer  her  partmg  boy. 

489 


ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL. 

Drink,  John,  she  said,  'twill  do  you  good — poor  child,  you'll  never  bear 
This  Avorking  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in  the  midnight  air, 
And  if — God  bless  me — you  were  hurt,  'twould  keep  away  the  chill  ; 
So  John  did  drink — and  well  he  wrought  that  night  at  Bunker's  Hill! 

I  tell  yoti,  there  was  generous  warmth  in  good  old  English  cheer; 
I  tell  you,  'twas  a  pleasant  thought  to  bring  its  symbol  here; 
'Tis  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess — hast  thou  a  drunken  soul. 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in  my  silver  bowl ! 

I  love  the  memory  of  the  past — its  pressed  yet  fragrant  flowers — 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  Avails — the  ivy  on  its  towers — 
Nay,  this  poor  bauble  it  bequeathed — ray  eyes  grow  moist  and  dim, 
To  think  of  all  the  vanished  joys  that  danced  around  its  brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear  it  straight  to  me ; 

The  goblet  hallows  aP/  it  holds,  whate'er  the  liquid  be  ; 

And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect  me  from  the  sin. 

That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  Avords — "  iMy  dear,  where  have  you  been  ?" 


AW 


X^  'W 


4  \l  ^. 


STREET. 


A  FOREST  NOOK. 


A  NOOK  -witliin   the  forest ;    overhead 
The  branches  arch,  and  shape  a  pleasant  bower, 
Breaking  wliite  ch)nd,  ])lne  sky  and  sunshme  briglit, 
Into  pure  ivory  and  sapphire  spots, 

4'Jl 


A  FOREST  NOOK. 


And  flecks  of  gold;    a  soft  cool  emerald  tint 
Colours  the  air,  as  though  the  delicate  leaves 
Emitted  self-born  light.     What  splendid  walls 
And  what  a  gorgeous  roof  carved  by  the  hand 
Of  glorious  Nature !     Here  the  spruce  thrusts  in 
Its  bristling  plume,  tipp'd  with  its  pale  green  points ; 
The  scallop'd  beech  leaf,  and  the  birch's  cut 
Into  fine  ragged  edges,  interlace: 
While  here  and  there,  through  clefts,  the  laurel  lifts 
Its  snowy  chalices  half-brimm'd  with  dcAv, 
As  though  to  hoard  it  for  the  haunting  elves 
The  moonlight  calls  to  this  their  festal  hall, 
A  thick,  rich,  grassy  carpet  clothes  the  earth, 
Sprinkled  Avith  autumn  leaves.     The  fern  displays 
Its  fluted  wreath  beaded  beneath  Avith  drops  "^ 

Of  richest  brown ;    the  Avild-rose  spreads  its  breast 
Of  delicate  pink,  and  the  o'erhanging  fir 
Has  dropp'd  its  dark,  long  cone. 

The  scorching  glare 
Without,  makes  this  green  nest  a  grateful  haunt 
For  summer's  radiant  things;    the  butterfly 
Fluttering  within  and  resting  on  some  floAver, 
Fans  his  rich  velvet   form ;    the  toiling  bee 
Shoots  by,  Avith  sounding  hum  and  mist-like  wings ; 
The  robin  perches  on  the  bending  spray 
With  shrill,  quick  chirp ;    and  like  a  flake  of  fire 
The  redbird  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  leaves. 
And  now  and  then  a  flutter  overhead 
In  the  thick  green,  betrays  some  wandering  Aving 
Coming  and  going,  yet  conceal'd  from  sight. 
A  shrill,  loud  outcry — on  yon  highest  bough 
Sits  the  gray  squirrel,  in  his  burlesque  wrath 
Stamping  and  chattering  fiercely:    now  he  drops 
A  hoarded  nut,  then  at  my  smiling  gaze 
Buries  himself  Avithin   the  foliaee. 
The  insect  tribe  are  here  ;    the  ant  toils  on 
With  its  Avliite  burthen ;    in  its  netted  web 

4U2 


STREET. 

Gray  glistening  o'er  the  bush,  the  spicier  lurks, 

A  close-crouch'd  ball,  out-darting  as  a  hum 

Tells  its  trapp'd  prey,  and  looping  quick  its  threads. 

Chains  into  helplessness  the  buzzing  wings. 

The  wood-tick  taps  its  tiny  muffled  drum 

To  the  shrill  cricket-fife,  and  swelling  loud, 

The  grasshopper  its  swelling  bugle  winds. 

Those  breaths  of  Nature,  the  light  fluttering  aii-s 

Like  gentle  respirations,  come  and  go, 

Lift  on  its  crimson  stem  the  maple-leaf. 

Displaying  its  white  lining  underneath. 

And  sprinkle  from  the  tree-tops  golden  rain 

Of  sunshine  on  the  velvet  sward  below. 

Such  nooks  as  this  are  common  in  the  woods : 

And  all  these  slights  and  sounds  the  commonest 

In  Nature  when  she  wears  her  summer  prime. 

Yet  by  them  pass  not  lightly :    to  the  wise 

They  tell  the  beauty  and  the  harmony 

Of  e'en  the  lowliest  things  that  God  hath  made. 

That  His  familiar  earth  and  sky  are  full 

Of  His  ineffable  power  and  majesty ; 

That  in  the  humble  objects,  seen  too  oft 

To  be  regarded,  is  such  Avondrous   grace, 

The  art  of  man  is  vain  to  imitate ; 

That  the  low  flower  our  careless  foot  treads  down 

Is  a  rich  shrine  of  incense  delicate. 

And  radiant  beauty,  and  that  God  hath  form'd 

All,  from  the  cloud-wTeath'd  mountain,  to  the  grain 

Of  silver  sand  the  bubbling  spring  casts  up 

With  deepest  forethought  and  severest  care. 

And  thus  these  noteless  lovely  things  are  t}'pes 

Of  his  perfection  and  divinity. 


403 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 
TWO   IN   THE   CAMPAGNA, 

I  WONDEK  do  you  feel  to-day 

As  I  have  felt,  since,  hand  in  hand, 

We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 

This  morn  of  Rome  and  May "? 

For  me,  I  touched  a  thought,  I  know, 
Has  tantalised  me  many  times, 

(Like  turns  of  thread  the  spiders  throw 
Mocking  across  our  path,)  for  rhymes 

To  catch  at  and  let  go. 


&^ 


Help  me  to  hold  it:    first  it  left 
The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 

There,  branching  from  the  brickwork's  cleft. 
Some  old  tomb's  ruin  :    yonder  weed 

Took  up  the  floating  weft, 

Where  one  small  orange-cup  amassed 

Five  beetles, — blind  and  green  they  grope 

Among  the  honey-meal, — and  last 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope 

I  traced  it.     Hold  it  fast! 

The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 
Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere ! 

Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace. 
An  everlasting  wash  of  air — 

Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 

491: 


I 


Such  life  there,  through  such  leugths  of  hours, 
Such  miracles  performed  in  play, 

Such  |)rimal  naked  forms  of  flowers, 
Such  letting  Nature  have  her  way 

AVhile  Heaven  looks  from  its  towers. 


How  say  you?     Let  us,  O  my  dove, 
Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul, 

As  earth  lies  bare   to  heaven  above. 
How  is  it  under  our  control 

To  love   or  not  to  love? 

495 


TWO  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA. 

I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 

You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more — 

Nor  yours,  nor  mine, — nor  slave  nor  free ! 
Where  does  the  fault  lie?    what  the  core 

Of  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be? 

I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will. 

See  Avith  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 

Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 

At  your  soul's  springs, — your  part,  my  part 

In  life,  for  good  and  ill. 

No.     I  yearn  upward — touch  you  close, 
Then  stand  away.     I  kiss  your  cheek, 

Catch  your  soul's  warmth, — I  pluck  the  rose 
And  love  it  more  than  tongue  can  speak, — 

Then  the  good  minute  goes. 

Already  how  am  I  so  far 

Out  of  that  minute?     Must  I  go 

Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar. 

Onward,  whenever  light  winds  blow, 

Fixed  by  no  friendly  star? 

Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  learn ! — 
Where  is  the  thread  now  ?     Off  again ! 

^The  old  trick !      Only  I  discern — 
Infinite  passion  and  the  pain 

Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn. 


496 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 


EVELYN  HOPE. 

Beautiful  Eveljai  Hope  is  dead ; 

Sit  and  watcli  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in   the  glass. 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think — 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  thro'   the  hinge's  chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  Avhen  she  died ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name — 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love :    beside. 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim. 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir — 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

Is  it  too  late,  then,  Evelyn   Hope? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true. 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope. 

Made  you  of  spirit,  tire,  and  dew; 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old. 

And  our  paths  in   the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  nought  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow-mortals,  nought  beside? 

No,  indeed !    for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 

And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love, — 
I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake ! 

4:)7  1 1 


EVELYN  HOPE. 

Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  fcAV — 

Much  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 
Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come, — at  last  it  will, — 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant,  I  shall  say. 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine. 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red — 
And  what  you  would  do  Avith  me,  in  fine. 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

I  have  lived,  I  shall  say,  so  much  since  then. 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times. 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men. 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me — 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope! 

What  is  the  issue?    let  us  see! 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while ; 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold — 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young  smile. 

And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young  gold. 
So,  hush, — I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep — 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand. 
There,  that  is  our  secret !    go  to  sleep ; 

Yon  will  wake,  and  remember,  and   understand. 


498 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


WINE  OF  CYPRUS. 


If  old  Bacchus  were  the  speaker, 

He  would  tell  you,  Avith  a  sigh. 
Of"  the  Cyprus  in  this  beaker 

I  am  sipping  like  a  fly, — 
Like  a  fly  or  gnat  on  Ida 

At  the  hour  of  goblot-plodge, 
Ky  quecTi  Juno  brusiied  aside,  a 

Full  white  arm-sweep,  from  the  edge. 
499 


AVINE  OF  CYPRUS. 

Sooth,  the  drinking  should  be  ampler, 

When  the  drink  is  so  divine : 
And  some  deep-mouthed  Greek  exampler 

Would  become  your  Cyprus  wine ! 
Cyclop's  mouth  might  plunge  aright  in. 

While  his  one  eye  over-leered — 
Not  too  large  vi^ere  mouth  of  Titan, 

Drinking  rivers  down  his  beard. 


Pan  might  dip  his  head  so  deep  in. 

That  his  ears  alone  pricked  out, 
Fauns  around  him,  pressing,  leaping. 

Each  one  pointing  to  his  throat: 
While  the  Naiads,  like  Bacchantes 

Wild,  with  urns  thrown  out  to  waste. 
Cry, — "  O  earth,  that  thou  wouldst  grant  us 

Springs  to  keep,  of  such  a  taste !" 

But  for  me,  I  am  not  worthy 

After  gods  and  Greeks  to  drink ; 
And  my  lips  are  pale  and  earthy 

To  go  bathing  from  this  brink. 
Since  you  heard  them  speak  the  last  time, 

They  have  faded  from  their  blooms. 
And  the  laughter  of  my  pastime 

Has  learnt  silence  at  the  tombs. 


Ah,  my  friend!    the  antique  drhikers 

Crowned  the  cup,  and  crowned  the  brow. 
Can  I  answer  the  old  thinkers 

In  the  forms  they  thought  of,  now? 
Who  will  fetch  from  garden-closes 

Some  new  garlands  while  I  speak, 
That  the  forehead,  crowned  Avith  roses. 

May  strike  scarlet  down  the  cheek"? 
500 


ELIZABETH  BARKETT  BROWNING. 

Do  not  mock  me !    with  my  mortal, 

Suits  no  wreath  again,  indeed ! 
I  am  sad-voiced  as  the  turtle 

Wlaich  Anacreon  used  to  feed ; 
Yet  as  that  same  bird  demurely 

Wet  her  beak  in  cup  of  his, — 
So,  without  a  garland,  surely 

I  may  touch  the  brim  of  this. 

Go ! — let  others  praise  the  Chian  ! — 

This  is  soft  as  Muses'   string — 
This  is  tawny  as  Ehea's  lion, 

This  is  rapid  as  its  spring, — 
Bright  as  Paphia's  eyes  e'er  met  us, 

Light  as  ever  trod  her  feet! 
And  the  brown  bees  of  Hyraettus 

Make  their  honey  not  so  sweet. 

Yery  copious  are  my  praises, 

Though  I  sip  it  like  a  fly  I — 
Ah — but,  sipping, — times  and  places 

Change  before  me  suddenly — 
As  Ulysses'  old  libation 

Drew  the  ghosts  from  every  part, 
So  your  C}^rus  wine,  dear  Grecian, 

Stirs  the  Hades  of  my  heart. 


And  I  think  of  those  long  mornings 

AVhich  my  thought  goes  far  to  seek. 
When,  betwixt  the  folio's  turnings, 

Solemn  flowed  tlie  rhytliinic  Greek. 
Past  the  pane,  the  mountain  spreading. 

Swept  the  sheep-bell's  tinkling  noise, 
While  a  girlish  voice  Avas  reading 

Somewhat  low  for  ai's  and  ol's. 
501 


WINE  OF  CYPRUS. 

Then  what  golden  hours  were  for  us ! — 

While  we  sate  together  there, 
Plow  the  white  vests  of  the  chorus 

Seemed  to  wave  up  a  live  air ! 
How  the  cothurns  trod  majestic 

Down  the  deep  iambic  lines ; 
And  the  rolling  anapaestic 

Curled  like  vapour  over  shrines ! 

Oh,  our  ^schylus,  the  thunderous! 

How  he  drove  the  bolted  breath 
Through  the  cloud,  to  wedge  it  ponderous 

In  the  gnarled  oak  beneath. 
Oh,  our  Sophocles,  the  royal, 

Who  was  born  to  monarch's  place — 
And  who  made  the  whole  world  loyal, 

Less  by  kingly  power  than  grace. 

Our  Euripides,  the  human — 

With  his  droppings  of  warm  tears ; 
And  his  touches  of  things  common. 

Till  they  rose  to  touch  the  spheres ! 
Our  Theocritus,  our  Bion, 

And  our  Pindar's  shining  goals ! — 
These  were  cup-bearers  undying 

Of  the  wine  that's  meant  for  souls. 


And  my  Plato,  the  divine  one, — 

K  men  know  the  gods  aright 
By  their  motions,  as  they  shine  on 

With  a  glorious  trail  of  light! — 
And  your  noble  Christian  bishops, 

Wlio  mouthed  grandly  the  last  Greek : 
Though  the  sponges  on  their  hyssops 

Were  distent  with  wine — too  weak. 
502 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

Yet,  your  Chrysostom,  you  praised  hini, 

With  his  liberal  mouth   of  gold ; 
And  your  Basil,  you  upraised  him 

To  the  height  of  speakers  old : 
And  we  both  praised  Heliodorus 

For  his  secret  of  pure  lies ; — 
Who  forged  first  his  linked  stories 

In  the  heat  of  ladies'  eyes. 

Do  you   mind  that  deed  of  Ate' 

Wiiich  you  bound  me  to  so  fast, — 
Reading  "  De  Yirgiuitate," 

From  the  fii'st  line  to  the  last? 
How  I  said  at  ending,  solemn. 

As  I  turned  and  looked  at  you, 
That  St.  Simeon  on  the  column 

Had  had  somewhat  less  to  do? 


For  we  sometimes  gently  -wTangled ; 

Very  gently,  be  it  said, — 
Since  our  thoughts  were  disentangled 

By  no  breaking  of  the  thread ! 
And  I  charged  you  with  extortions 

On  the  nobler  fames  of  old — 
Ay,  and  sometimes  thought  your  Porsons 

Stained  the  purple  they  Avould  fold. 


For  the  rest — a  mystic  moaning 

Kept  Cassandra  at   (lie  gate, 
With  wild  eyes  the  vision  shone  in — 

And  wide  nostrils  scenting  fate. 
And  ]'rometheus,  bound  in   passion 

By  brute  force  to  the  blind  stone, 
Showed  us  looks  of  invocation 

i'urncd  to  ocean  and   the  sun. 
503 


WINE  OF  CYPRUS. 

And  Medea  we  saw  burning 

At  her  nature's  planted  stake  ; 
And  proud  Oedipus  fate-scorning 

While  the  cloud  came  on  to  break — 
While  the  cloud  came  on  slow — slower, 

Till  he  stood  discrowned,  resigned! — 
But  the  reader's  voice  dropped  lower 

When  the  poet  called  him  blind  ! 

Ah,  my  gossip !    you  were  older, 

And  more  learned,  and  a  man ! — 
Yet  that  shadow — the  enfolder 

Of  your  quiet  eyelids — ran 
Both  our  spirits  to  one  level, 

And  I  turned  from  hill  and  lea, 
And  the  summer-sun's  green  revel, — 

To  your  eyes  that  could  not  see. 

Now  Christ  bless  you  with  the  one  light 

Which  goes  shining  night  and  day ! 
May  the  tlowers  which   grow  in  sunlight 

Shed  their  fragrance  in  your  way ! 
Is  it  not  right  to  remember 

All  your  kindness,  friend  of  mine. 
When  we  two  sate  in  the  chamber 

And  the  poets  poured  us  wine  ? 


So,  to  come  back  to  the  di'inking 

Of  this  Cyprus, — it  is  well — 
But  those  memories,  to  my  thinking, 

Make  a  better  oenomel ; 
And  whoever  be  the  speaker. 

None  can  murmur  with  a  sigh — 
That,  in  drinking  from  tliat  beaker, 

I  am  si[)ping  like  a  fly. 
504 


KINGSLEY. 

THE   THREE   FISHERS. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  down  to  the  west, 

Away  to  the  west  as  the  sun  went  down  ; 

Each  thought  of  the  woman  who  loved  him  the  best. 

And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the   timn. 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  here's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 

Though  the  harbour  bar  be  moanhig. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower, 

And  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  Avent  down ; 

And  they  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the  shower. 

While  the  night  rack  came  rolling  up,  ragged  and  brown  ; 
J>iit  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep. 

And  the  hai'bour  bar  be  moaning. 


Three  corpses  lie  out  on  the  shining  sands. 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 
And  the  woiulmi  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands, 

505 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE. 

P^or  those  who  Avill  never  come  home  to  the  town. 
But  men  must  Avork,  and  women  must  Aveep, 
And  tlie  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep, 

And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE. 

"  On,  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee ;" 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi'  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand. 
As  far  as  eye  could  see ; 
The  blinding  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land — 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"  Oh,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
O'  drowned  maiden's  hair. 
Above  the  nets  at  sea"? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair, 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam. 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam. 
The  cruel,  hungry  foam. 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea : 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 

50G 


KINGSLEY. 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  LORD. 

The  Day  of  the  Lord  is  at  band,  at  hand! 

Its  storms  roll  up  the  sky : 
A  nation  sleeps  starving  on  heaps  of  gold ; 

All  dreamers  toss  and  sigh ; 
The  night  is  darkest  before  the  dawn — 
When  the  pain  is  sorest  the  child  is  born, 

And  the  Day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand. 

Gather  you,  gather  you,  angels  of  God — 

Freedom,  and  Mercy,  and  Truth ; 
Come !  for  the  Earth  is  grown  coward  and  old — 

Come  down  and  renew  us  her  youth. 
Wisdom,  Self-sacrifice,  Daring,  and  Love, 
Haste  to  the  battle-field,  stoop  from  above. 
To  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 

Gather  you,  gather  you,  hounds  of  hell — 

Famine,  and  Plague,  and  War ; 
Idleness,  Bigotry,  Cant,  and  Misrule, 

Gather,  and  fall  in  the  snare ! 
Hirelings  and  jMammonites,  Pedants  and  Knaves, 
Crawl  to  the  battle-field — sneak  to  your  graves. 
In   the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 

Who  would  sit  down  and  sigh  for  a  lost  age  of  gold, 

While  the  Lord  of  all  ages  is  here? 
True  hearts  will  leap  up  at  the  trumpet  of  God. 

And  those  who  can  suffer,  can  dare. 
Each  age  of  gold  Avas  an   iron  age  too. 
And  the  meekest  of  saints  may  lind  stern  work   to  do, 
In   the  Day  of  the  Lord  at   Iiniul. 
507 


AYTOUN. 

THE  BURIAL-MARCH  OF  DUNDEE. 

I. 

Sound  the  fife,  and  ciy  the  slogan —  . 

Let  the  pibroch  shake  the  air 
With  its  wild  triumphal  music, 

Worthy  of  the  freight  we  bear. 
Let  the  ancient  hills  of  Scotland 

Hear  once  more  the  battle-song 
Swell  within  their  glens  and  valleys 

As  the  clansmen  march  along ! 
Never  from  the  field  of  combat, 

Never  from  the  deadly  fray. 
Was  a  nobler  trophy  carried 

Than  we  bring  with  ns  to-day; 
Never  since  the  valiant  Douglas 

On  his  dauntless  bosom  bore 
Good  King  Robert's  heart — the  priceless- 

To  our  dear  Redeemer's  shore! 
Lo !    we  bring  with  us  the  hero — 

Lo!    we  bring  the  conquering  Gragme, 
Crowned  as  best  beseems  a  victor 

From  the  altar  of  his  fame ; 
Fresh  and  bleeding  from  the  battle 

Whence  his  spirit  took  its  flight, 
Midst  the  crashing  charge  of  squadrons, 

And  the  thunder  of  the  fight! 
Strike,  I  say,  the  notes  of  triumph, 
As  we  march  o'er  moor  and  lea  I 
Is  there  any  here  will  venture 
To  bewail  our  dead  Dundee? 
508 


AYTOUN. 

Let  the  widows  of  tlie  traitors 

Weep  until  their  eyes  are  dim ! 
WaU  ye  may  full  well  for  Scotland — 

Let  none  dare  to  mourn  for  him! 
See!    above  his  glorious  body 

Lies  the  royal  banner's  fold — 
See !    his  valiant  blood   is  mingled 

With  its  crimson  and  its  gold. 
See  how  calm  he  looks  and  stately, 

Like  a  warrior  on  his  shield, 
Waiting  till  the  flush  of  morning 

Breaks  along  the  battle-field ! 
See — Oh  never  more,  my  comrades, 

Shall  we  see  that  falcon  eye 
Redden  with  its  inward  lightning, 

As  the  hour  of  fight  drew  nigh ! 
Never  shall  we  hear  the  voice  that. 

Clearer  than  the  trumpet's  call. 
Bade  us  strike  for  King  and  Country, 

Bade  us  win  the  field,  or  fall ! 


II. 


On  the  heights   of  Killiecrankie 

Yester-morn  our  army  lay: 
Slowly  rose  the  mist  in  columns 

From  the  river's  broken  way; 
Hoarsely  roared  the  swollen  torrent, 

And  the  Pass  was  wrapped  in  gloom, 
When  the  clansmen  rose  together 

From  their  lair  amidst  the  broom. 
Then  we  belted  on  our  tartans, 

And  our  bonnets  down  Ave  drew, 
And  we  felt  our  broadswords'   edges. 

And  we  proved   them   lo  be  true; 
And  we  prayed  the  prayer  of  soldiers, 

And  we  cried  the  gathering-cry, 
r>o'j 


THE  BURIAL-MAECH  OF  DUNDEE. 

And  we  clasped  the  hands  of  khismen, 

And  we  swore  to  do  or  die ! 
Then  our  leader  rode  before  us 

On  his  war-horse  black  as  night — 
Well  the  Cameronian  rebels 

Knew  that  charger  in  the  fight! — 
And  a  cry  of  exultation 

From  the  bearded  warriors  rose; 
For  we  loved  the  house  of  Claver'sc, 

And  we  thought  of  good  Montrose. 
But  he  raised  his  hand  for  silence — 

"Soldiers!    I  have   sworn  a  vow: 
Ere  the  evening  star  shall  glisten 

On  Schehallion's  lofty  brow, 
Either  we  shall  rest  in  triumph, 

Or  another  of  the  Grsemes 
Shall  have  died  in  battle-harness 

For  his  Country  and  King  James! 
Think  upon  the  Eoyal  Martyr — 

Think  of  what  his  race  endure — 
Think  on  him  whom  butchers  murder'd 

On  the  field  of  Magus  Muir : — 
By  his  sacred  blood  I  charge  ye, 

By  the  ruined  hearth  and  shrine — 
By  the  blighted  hopes  of  Scotland, 

By  your  injuries  and  mine — 
Strike  this  day  as  if  the  anvil 

Lay  beneath  your  blows  the  while, 
]^e  they  Covenanting  traitors, 

Or  the  brood  of  false  Argyle! 
Strike!    and  drive  the  trembling  rebels 

Backwards  o'er  the  stormy  Forth; 
Let  them  tell  their  pale  Convention 

How  they  fared  within   the  Nortli. 
Let  them  tell  that  Highland  honour 

Is  not  to  be  bought  nor  sold, 
That  we  scorn  their  prince's  anger 

510 


AYTOUN. 

As  we  loathe  his  Ibreiorn  gold. 
Strike !    and  when  the  fight  is  over, 

If  you  look  in  vain  for  me, 
Where  the  dead  are  lying  thickest 

Search  for  him  that  was  Dundee !" 


III. 

Loudly  then  the  hills  re-echoed 

With  our  answer  to  his  call, 
But  a  deeper  echo  sounded 

In  the  bosoms  of  us  all. 
For  the  lands  of  wide  Breadalbane, 

Not  a  man  who  heard  him  speak 
Would  that  day  have  left  the  battle. 

Burning  eye  and  flushing  cheek 
Told  the  clansmen's  fierce  emotion, 

And  thev  harder  drew  their  breath ; 
For  their  souls  were  strong  within  them. 

Stronger  than  the  grasp  of  death. 
Soon  we  heard  a  challenge-trumpet 

Sounding  in  the  Pass  below, 
And  the  distant  tramp  of  horses. 

And  the  voices  of  the  foe ; 
Down  we  crouched  amid  the  bracken. 

Till  the  Lowland  ranks  draw  near, 
Panting  like  the  hounds  in  summer. 

When  they  scent  the  stately  deer. 
From  the  dark  defile  emerging, 

Next  we  saw  the  squadrons  come, 
Leslie's  foot  and  Leven's  troopers 

Marching  to  the  tuck  of  drum  ; 
Through  the  scattered  wood  of  birclie.<. 

O'er  the  broken  ground  and  heath, 
Wound  the  long   battalion  slowly, 

Till  they  gained  tlie  field  beneatli ; 
Then  we  bounded  from  our  covert. — 

511 


THE  BURIAL-MARCH  OF  DUNDEE. 

Judge  how  looked  the  Saxons  then, 
Wlien  they  saw  the  rugged  mountain 

Start  to  life  with  armed  men ! 
Like  a  tempest  down  the  ridges 

Swept  the  hurricane  of  steel, 
Rose  the  slogan  of  Macdonald — 

Flashed  the  broadsword  of  Lochiel ! 
Vainly  sped  the  withering  volley 

'Mongst  the  foremost  of  our  band — 
On  we  poured  until  we  met  them, 

Foot  to  foot,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Horse  and  man  went  down  like  drift-wood 

\\1ien  the  floods  are  black  at  Yule, 
And  their  carcasses  are  whirling 

In  the  Garry's  deepest  pool. 
Horse  and  man  went  down  before  us — 

Livins  foe  there  tarried  none 
On  the  field  of  Killiecrankie, 

When  that  stubborn  fight  was  done! 


IV. 

And  the  evening  star  was  shining 

On  Schehallion's  distant  head, 
Wlien  Ave  wiped  our  bloody  broadswords 

And  returned  to  count  the  dead. 
There  we  found  him  gashed  and  gory, 

Stretched  upon  the  cumbei-ed  plain. 
As  he  told  us  where  to  seek  him. 

In  the  thickest  of  the  slain. 
And  a  smile  was  on  his  visage, 

For  within  his  dying  ear 
Pealed  the  joyful  note  of  triumph, 

And  the  clansmen's  clamorous  cheer 
So,  amidst  the  battle's  thunder, 

Shot,  and  steel,  and  scorching  flame, 
In  the  glory  of  his  manhood 

Passed  the  spirit  of  the  Grieme! 
512 


3 


AYTOUN. 


V. 


Open  ^Yide  tlie  vaults  of  Atliol, 

Where  the  bones  of  heroes  rest — 
Open  wide  the  liallowed  portals 

To  receive  another  guest ! 
Last  of  Scots,  and  last  of  freemen — 

Last  of  all  that  dauntless  race 
Who  would  rather  die  unsullied 

Than  outlive  the  land's  disgrace! 
O  thou  lion-hearted  warrior ! 

Reck  not  of  the  after-time : 
Honour  may  be  deemed  dishonour, 

Loyalty  be  called  a  crime. 
Sleep  in  peace  witli  kindred  ashes 

Of  the  noble  and  the  true. 
Hands  that  never  failed  their  country, 

Hearts  that  never  baseness  knew. 
Sleep! — and  till  the  latest  trumpet 

Wakes  the  dead  from  earth  and  sea, 
Scotland  shall  not  boast  a  braver 

Chieftain  than  our  own  Dundee ! 


513  K  K 


DAVIS. 


THE  SACK  OF  BALTIMORE. 


Baltimore  is  a  sea-port  in  South  funster,  and  was  plundered  by  a  band  of  Algerines  in  the 
night  of  June  20th,  1631,  under  the  guidance  of  Hackett,  a  Dungarvan  fisherman. 


The  summer  sun  is  falling  soft  on  Carb'ry's  hundred  isles, 
The  summer  sun  is  gleaming  still  through  Gabriel's  rough  defiles 
Old  Inisherkin's  crumbled  fane  looks  like  a  moulting  bird, 
And  in  a  calm  and  sleepy  swell  the  ocean  tide  is  heard. 


514 


DAVIS. 

The  hookers  lie  upon  the  beach  ;    the  children  cease  their  play ; 
The  gossips  leave  the  little  inn  ;    the  households  kneel  to  prav, — 
And  full  of  love,  and  peace,  and  rest — its  daily  labour  o'er — 
Upon  that  cosy  creek  there  lay  the  town  of  Baltimore. 

A  deeper  rest,  a  starry  trance,  has  come  with  midnight  there  ; 
No  sound,  except  that  throbbing  wave,  in  earth,  or  sea,  or  air. 
The  massive  capes  and  ruined  towers  seem  conscious  of  the  calm  ; 
^The  fibrous  sod  and  stunted  trees  are  breathing  heavy  balm. 
So  still  the  night,  these   two  long  barques,  round  Dunashad  that  glide 
Must  trust  their  oars,  methinks  not  few,  against  the  ebbing-tide — 
Oh  !    some  sweet  mission  of  true  love  must  urge  them  to  the  shore — 
They  bring  some  lover  to  his  bride,  who  sighs  in  Baltimore  ! 

All,  all  asleep  within  each  roof  along  that  rocky  street. 

And  these  must  be  the  lover's  friends,  with  gently  gliding  feet — 

A  stifled  gasp  !    a  dreamy  noise  ! — "  The  roof  is  in  a  flame !" 

From  out  their  beds,  and  to  their  doors,  rush  maid,  and  sire,  and  dame — 

And  meet,  upon  the  threshold  stone,  the  gleaming  sabre's  Ml, 

And  o'er  each  black  and  bearded  face  the  white  or  crimson  shawl — 

The  yell  of  "Allah"  breaks  above  the  prayer,  and  shriek,  and  roar — 

Oh,  blessed  .God !    the  Algerine  is  lord  of  Baltimore  ! 

Then  flung  the  youth  his  naked  hand  against  the  shearing  sword  ; 
Then  sprung  th^  mother  on   the  brand  with  which  her  son  was  gor'd  ; 
Then  sunk  the  grandsire  on  the  floor,  his  grand-babes  clutching  wild ; 
Then  fled  the  maiden  moaning  faint,  and  nestled  with  the  child ; 
But  see  yon  pirate  strangled  lies,  and  crushed  with  splashing  heel, 
AVhile  o'er  him  in   an  Irish  hand   there  SAveeps  his  Syrian  steel — 
Though  virtue  sink,  and  courage  fail,  and  misers  yield  their  store, 
There's  one  hearth 'well  avenged  in   the  sack  of  Baltimore. 

Midsummer  morn,  in  woodland  nigh,  the  birds  begin  to  sing — 
They  see  not  now  the  milking  maids,  deserted  is   the  spring  ! 
Midsummer  day — this  gallant  rides  from  distant  Bandon's  town. — 
These  hookers  crossed  from  stormy  Skull,  that  skiflf  from  AflTadown  ; 


THE  SACK  OF  BALTIxAlOKE. 

They  onlj  found  the  smoking  walls,  with  neighbours'  blood  besprent, 
And  on  the  strewed  and  trampled  beach  awhile  they  wildly  went, — 
Then  dash'd  to  sea,  and  passed  Cape  Cleir,  and  saw  five  leagues  before 
The  pirate  galleys  vanishing  that  ravaged  Baltimore. 

Oh  !    some  must  tug  the  galley's  oar,  and  some  must  tend  the  steed, — 

This  boy  will  bear  a  Sheik's  chibouk,  and  that  a  Bey's  jerreed. 

Oh !    some  are  for  the  arsenals,  by  beauteous  Dardanelles ; 

And  some  are  in  the  caravan  to  JNIecca's  sandy  dells. 

The  maid  that  Bandon  gallant  sought  is  chosen  for  the  Dey — 

She's  safe — she's  dead — she  stabb'd  him  in   the   midst  of  his  Serai. 

And,  when  to  die  a  death  of  fire,  that  noble  maid  they  bore, 

She  only  smiled — O'Driscoll's  child — she  thought  of  Baltimore. 

'Tis  two  long  years  since  sunk  the  town  beneath  that  bloody  band, 
And  all  around  its  trampled  hearths  a  larger  concourse  stand, 
Where,  high  upon  a  gallows-tree,  a  yelling  vsTetch  is  seen — 
'Tis  Hackett  of  Dungarvan, — ^he,  who  steered  the  Algerine ! 
He  fell  amid  a  sullen  shout,  with  scarce  a  passing  prayer, 
For  he  had  slain  the  kith  and  kin  of  many  a  hundred  there — 
Some  muttered  of  Mac  Morrogh,  who  had  brought  the  Norman  o'er — 
Some  curs'd  him  with  Iscariot,  that  day  in  Baltimore. 


516 


BULWER  LYTTON. 


EVA. 


THE  MAIDEN'S  HOME. 


A  COTTAGE  in  a  peaceful  vak- ; 

A  jasmine  round   (lie  door; 
A  liill  to  shelter  from  the  gale  ; 

A  silver  brook  helbre. 
517 


EVA. 

Oh,  sweet  the  jasmme's  buds  of  snow, 

In  mornings  soft  with  May; 
Oh,  silver-clear  the  waves  that  flow, 

Eeflecting  heaven,  away! 
A  sweeter  bloom  to  Eva's  youth 

Eejoicing  Nature  gave  ; 
And  heaven  was  mirror' d  in  her  truth 

More  clear  than  on  the  wave. 
Oft  to  that  lone  sequester'd  place 

My  boyish  steps  would  roam. 
There  was  a  look  in  Eva's  face 

That  seem'd  a  smile  of  home. 
And  oft  I  paused  to  hear  at  noon 

A  voice  that  sang  for  glee : 
Or  mark  the  white  neck  glancing  down, 

The  book  upon  the  knee. 

THE  IDIOT  BOY. 

Who  stands  between  thee  and  the  sun? — 
A  cloud  himself, — the  Wandering  One ! 
A  vacant  wonder  in  the  eyes, — 

The  mind,  a  blank,  unAvritten  scroll ; — 
The  light  was  in  the  laughing  skies. 
And  darkness  in  the  Idiot's   soul. 
He  touch'd  the  book  upon  her  knee — 

He  look'd  into  her  gentle  face — 
"Thou  dost  not  tremble,  maid,  to  see 
Poor  Arthur  by  thy  dAvelling-place. 
I  know  not  why,  but  where  I  pass 

The  aged  turn  away; 
And  if  my  shadow  vex  the  grass. 

The  children  cease  from  play. 
My  only  playmates  are  the  wind. 

The  blossom  on  the  bough ! 
Why  arc  thy  looks  so  soft  and  kind? 
Thou  dost  not  tremble — thou  !" 
518 


BULWER  LYTTON. 

Though  none  were  by,  she  trembled  not, — 
Too  meek  to  wound,  too  good  to  fear  hiin  ; 

And,  as  he  linger'd  on  the  spot, 

She  hid  the  tears  that  gush'd  to  hear  him. 

THE  YOUNG  TEACHER. 

Of  wonders  on  the  land  and  deeps 

She  spoke,  and  glories  in  the  sky — 
The  eternal  life  the  Father  keeps 

For  those,  who  learn  from  Him  to  die. 
So  simply  did  the  maiden  speak — 

So  simply  and  so  earnestly. 
You  saw  the  light  begin  to  break. 

And  Soul  the  Heaven  to  see ; 
You  saw  how  slowly,  day  by  day. 
The  darksome  waters  caught  the  ray. 
Confused  and  broken — come  and  gone — 

The  beams  as  yet  uncertain  are. 
But  still  the  billoAvs  murmur  on, 

And  struggle  for  the  star. 

THE  STRANGER-SUITOR. 

There  came  to  Eva's  maiden  home 

A  Stranger  from  a  sunnier  clime ; 
The  lore  that  Hellas  taught  to  Rome, 

The  wealth  that  Wisdom  wins  from  Time, 
"Which  ever,  in  its  ebb  and  flow, 

Pleaves  to  the  seeker  on   the  shore 
The  waifs  of  glorious  wrecks  below, 

Tlie  argosies  of  yore ; — 
Each  gem  that  in   that  dark  profound 

The  Past  the  Student's  soul  can  find. 
Shone  from  his  thought,  and  sparkled  round 

The  Enchanted  Palace  of  the  ]\Iiud. 
How  trustful  in   the  leafy  June, 

She  roved  with  him  the  lonely  vale  ; 
.^11) 


v~  -^  JIJ 


How  trustful  by  the  tender  moon, 

She  blu.^h'd  to  hear  a  tenderer  tale. 
O  happy  Earth !    the  dawn  revives, 

Day  after  day,  each  drooping  flower — 
Time  to  the  heart  once  only  gives 

The  joyous  Morning-hour. 
"To  him — oh,  wilt  thou  pledge  thy  youth, 

For  whom  the  world's  false  bloom  is  o'er? 
520 


BULWER  LYTTON. 

]My  heart  shall  haven  in  thy  truth, 

And  tempt  the  faithless  wave  no  more."' 

Her  hand  lay  trembling  on  his  arm, 

Averted  glow'd  the  happy  face ; 
A  softer  hue,  a  mightier  charm, 

Grew  mellowing  o'er  the  hour — the  place ; 
Along  the  breathing  Avoodlands  moved 

A  presence  dream-like  and  divine — 
How  sweet  to  love  and  be  beloved, 

To  lean  upon  a  heart  that's  thine ! 
Silence  was  o'er  the  earth  and  sky — 

By  silence  Love  is  answer'd  best — 
Her  answer  was  the  downcast  eye, 

The  rose-cheek  pillow'd  on  his  breast. 

"What  rustles  through  the  moonlit  brake? 

What  sudden  spectre  meets  their  gaze  ? 
"What  face,  the  hues  of  life  forsake, 

Gleams  ghost-like  in  the  ghostly  rays? 
You  might  have  heard  his  heart  that  beat. 

So  heaving  rose  its  heavy  swell — 
Xo  more  the  Idiot — at  her  feet 

The  Dark  One,  roused  to  reason,  fell. 
Loosed  the  last  link   that   thrall'd  the  thought, 

The  lightning  broke   upon  the  blind — 
The  jealous  love  the  cure  had  wrought. 

The  Heart  in  waking  woke  the  Mind. 

THE  HERMIT. 

Years  fly;    beneath  the  yew-tree's  shade, 

Tliy  fiither's  holy  dust  is  laid ; 

The  brook  glides  on,  the  jasmine  blows  ; 

But  where  art   thou,  the  wandering  wife? 
And  what  the  bliss,  and  what   the  woes, 

Glass'd  in    ihe   mirror-sleep  of  life  ? 
521 


EVA. 

For  whether  life  may  laugh  or  weep. 
Death  the  true  waking — life  the  sleep. 
Who  tenants  thy  forsaken  cot — 

Who  tends  thy  childhood's  favourite  flowers- 
Who  wakes,  from  every  haunted  spot, 

The  Ghosts  of  buried  Hours'? 
'Tis  He  whose  sense  was  doom'd  to  borrow 
From  thee  the  Vision  and  the  Sorrow — 
To  whom  the  Eeason's  golden  ray, 

In  storms  that  rent  the  heart,  was  given  ; 
The  peal  that  burst  the  clouds  away 

Left  clear  the  face  of  heaven ! 
And  wealth  was  his,  and  gentle  birth, 

A  form  in  fair  proportions   cast ; 
But  lonely  still  he  walk'd  the  earth — 

The  Hermit  of  the  Past. 
It  was  not  love — that  dream  was  o'er! 

No  stormy  grief,  no  wild  emotion  ; 
For  oft,  what  once  was  love  of  yore, 

The  memory  soothes  into  devotion ! 
He  bought  the  cot: — The  garden  flowers — 

The  haunts  his  Eva's  steps  had  trod. 
Books — thought — beguiled  the  lonely  hours, 

That  flow'd  in  peaceful  waves  to  God. 

DESERTION. 

She  sits,  a  Statue  of  Despair, 

In  that  far  land,  by  that  bright  sea; 
She  sits,  a  Statue  of  Despair, 

Whose  smile  an  Angel's  seem'd  to  be. 
She  knows  it  all — the  hideous  tale — 

The  wrong,  the  perjury,  and  the  shame ; — 
Before  the  bride  had  left  her  veil. 

Another  bore  the  nuptial  name. 
The  infant  woke  from  feverish  rest — 

Its  smile  she  sees,  its  voice  she  hears — 


Tlie  marble  melted   from  the  breast, 
And  ;dl  the  Mother  gush'd  in   tears. 


THE  RETURN. 


The  cottage  in  the  peacefnl  vale, 
The  jasmine  ronnd  the  door, 

The  hill  still  shelters  from  the  gale, 
The  brook  still  glides  before. 
523 


EVA. 

Without  the  porch,  one  summer  noon, 

The  Hermit-dweller  see ! 
In  musing  silence  bending  down, 

The  book  upon  his  knee. 
Who  stands  between  thee  and  the  sun? — 
A  cloud  herself, — the  Wand'ring  One! — 
A  vacant  sadness  in  the  eyes, 

The  mind  a  razed,  defeatured  scroll ; 
The  light  is  in  the  laughing  skies. 

And  darkness,  Evaj  in  thy  soul ! 
Yet  still  the  native  instinct  stirr'd 

The  darkness  of  the  breast — 
She  flies,  as  flies  the  wounded  bird 

Unto  the  distant  nest ; 
O'er  hill  and  waste,  from  land  to  land, 

Her  heart  the  faithful  instinct  bore; 
And  there,  behold  the  Wanderer  stand 

Beside  her  Childhood's  Home  once  more! 


LIGHT  AXD  DARKNESS. 

When  earth  is  fair,  and  winds  are  still, 
When  sunset  gilds  the  western  hill. 
Oft  by  the  porch,  with  jasmine  sweet. 
Or  by  the  brook,  with  noiseless  feet. 

Two  silent  forms  are  seen  ; 
So  silent  they — the  place  so  lone — 
They  seem  like  souls,  when  life  is  gone, 

That  haunt  where  life  has  been : 
And  his  to  watch,  as  in  the  past 

Her  soul  had  watch'd  his  soul. 
Alas !    her  darkness  waits  the  last. 

The  grave  the  only  goal! 
It  is  not  what  the  leech  can  cure — 

An  erring  chord,  a  jarring  madness : 
vV  calm  so  deep,  it  must  endure — 

So  deep,  thou  scarce  canst  call  it  sadness 
524 


BULWER  LYTTOX. 

A  summer  night,  whose  shadow  falls 

On  silent  hearths  in  ruin'd  halls. 

Yet,  through  the  gloom,  she  seem'd  to  feci 

His  presence  like  a  happier  air ; 
Close  by  his  side  she  loved  to  steal, 

As  if  no  ill  could  harm  her  there ! 
And  when  her  looks  his  own  woidd  seek. 

Some  memory  seem'd  to  wake  the  sigh. 
Strive  for  kind  words  she  could  not  speak, 

And  bless  him  in  the  tearful  eye. 

O  sweet  the  jasmine's  buds  of  snow, 

In  mornings  soft  with  May, 
And  silver-clear  the  waves  that  flow 

To  shoreless  deeps  away ; 
But  heavenward  from  the  faithful  heart 

A  sweeter  incense  stole ; — 
The  onward  waves  their  source  desert , 

But  Soul  returns  to  Soul ! 


525 


PROCTER. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  LIFE. 


Day  dawned : — Witliin  a  curtained  room, 
Filled  to  faintness  with  perfume, 
A  lady  lay  at  point  of  doom. 


PROCTER. 

Day  closed : — A  Child  had  seen  the  light ; 
But  for  the  lady,  fair  and  bright, 
She  rested  in  undreaming  night. 

Spring  rose : — The  lady's  graA^e  was  green  ; 
And  near  it  oftentimes  was  seen 
A  gentle  Boy,  Avith  thoughtful  mien. 

Years  fled : — lie  wore  a  manly  face, 
And  struggled  in  the  world's  rough  race, 
And  won,  at  last,  a  lofty  place. 

And  then — he  died !      Behold,  before  ye, 

Humanity's  poor  sum  and  story ; 

Life — Death, — and  all  that  is  of  Glory. 


WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT. 


WITHOUT. 

The  winds  are  bitter ;    the  skies  are  wild  ; 

From  the  roof  comes  plunging  the  drowning  rnin 
Without, — in  tatters,  the  world's  poor  child 

Sobbeth   abroad  her  grief,  her  pain  ! 
No  one  heareth  her,  no  one  heedeth  her : 

But   Hunger,  her  friend,  with  his  bony  hand 
(rrasps  her  throat,  Avhispering  huskily — 

"What  dost   Thou  in  a  Christian  land?" 

527 


WITHIN. 


The  skies  are  wild,  and  the  blast  is  cold ; 

Yet  riot  and  luxury  brawl  within : 
Slaves  are  waiting,  in  silver  and   gold, 

Waiting  the  nod  of  a  child  of  pin. 
The  fire  is  crackling,  wine  is  bubbling 

Up  in  each  glass  to  its  beaded  brim : 
The  jesters  are  laughing,  the  parasites  quaffing 

''Happiness," — "honour," — and  all  for  liiml 

528 


PROCTER. 


WITHOUT. 


She  who  is  slain  in  the  winter  weather, 

Ah !    she  once  had  a  village  fame ;     . 
Listened  to  love  on  the  moonlit  heather; 

Had  gentleness — vanity — maiden  shame  ; 
Noiv,  her  allies  are  the  tempest  howling ; 

Prodigals'  curses  ;    self-disdain  ; 
Poverty;    misery:    Well, — no  matter; 

There  is  an  end  unto  every  pain ! 

WITHIN. 

Pie  who  yon  lordly  feast  enjoyeth, 

He  who  doth  rest  on  his  couch  of  down, 

He  it  was,  who  threw  the  forsaken 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  town  : 

Liar — betrayer, — false  as  cruel. 
What  is  the  doom  for  his  dastard  sin  ? 

His  peers,  they  scorn? — high  dames,  they  shun  him? 
— L'nbar  yon  palace,  and  gaze  within. 

There, — ^yet  his  deeds  arc  all  trumpet-sounded. 

There,  upon  silken  seats  recline 
Maidens  as  fair  as  the  summer  morning. 

Watching  him  rise  from  the  sparkling  wine. 
Mothers  all  proffer  their  stainless  daughters ; 

Men  of  high  honour  salute  him   "  Friend ;" 
Skies!    oh,  where  are  your  cleansing  waters? 

World!    oh,  where  do  thy  wonders  end? 


529  L  L 


ATHERSTONE. 


BATTLE    SCENES. 


O'er  all  the  plain  th'  Assyrian  camp-fires  now 
Blaze  higli ;    and  with  the  darkness  a  drear  red 
Strangely  commingle.     Like  a  burning  gulf, 
Sleeping  till  stirr'd  by  winds ;    the  heaving  mass 
Of  warriors  at  the  mountain's  foot  appears  ; 
Breast-plates,  and  shields,  and  helms,  and  gonfalons. 
Glow  blood-red  here  and  there ;    but  doubly  dark 
Elsewhere  the  night.     Now,  toward  the  hills  all  haste : 
If  Medes  alone,  or  with  Assyrians  mixed, 
I  cannot  know ;    but  rapid  is  the  speed. 
The  light  increases :    up  the  mountain's  side, 

530 


ATHERSTONE. 

In  the  red  darkness  faintly  I  discern 
The  slumbering  myriads ;    and  toward  its  foot 
Onward  they  come ;    like  billows  of  dark  fire. 
But  farther  off,  in  one  bright  blaze,  the  camp 
Shines  out :    a  countless  multitude  I  see, 
In  flaming  armour  pouring  o'er  the  plain. 
Like  ocean  glittering  'neath  the  ruddy  sun, 
The  wide  field  flashes;    like  the  ocean's  roar 
Their  clamours  rise. 

Among  the  trees  a  crash 
I  hear, — a  heaving  of  the  branches.     Lights 
Are  thickening  near  the  hill.     Ha !    now  I  see 
They  rend  the  boughs  for  torches.     In  his  hand 
Each  soldier  bears  a  branch   of  blazing  pine. 
They  speed  toward  the  heights :    they  shake  the  torch  : 
They  wave  the  sword :    like  running  flame  they  seem. 
Now  up  the  steep  they  urge.     A  cloud  of  darts 
And  arrows  from  the  Medes  upon  them  pours, — 
A  fiery  cloud ;    and  stones  are  hurled — and  spears ; — 
Yet  upward  still  they  come.     The  watch-fires  now 
Are  flaming  on  the  hills :    distinctly  gleams 
The  battle  forth.     Their  torches  they  cast  down ; 
Not  needed  now.     Ha !    by  his  star-like  helm, 
Assyria's  king  appears.     He  shouts :    he  flies : 
He  points  towards  the  rocks  ; — he  waves  them  on. 
A  waiTJor  meets  him :    sword  with  sword  they  fight — 
Arabia's  monarch,  sure. — But  both  are  lost, — 
The  waves  of  fight  roll  o'er  them — 


INIeantime,  along  the  sapphire  bridge  of  heaven, 
Far,  far  beyond  the  canopy  of  cloud 
That  mantled  earth,  the  day -god's  lightning  steeds 
Thi'ough  the  pure  ethei*  rapt  his  chariot-wheels, 
Sounding  harmonious   thunder.      To  the  height 
They  had  ascended ;    and  the  steep  decline 
Half-way  had  measured;    yet  the  hard-fought  field 

531 


BATTLE  SCENES. 

Still  was  contested ;    for,  like  men  resolved 

On  that  one  day  to  peril  all  to  come — 

To  die,  perchance,  but  never  to  submit — 

The  Assyrian  captains  strove ;    and,  with  like  fire, 

Their  soldiers'  hearts  mflamed.     Aid  too  had  come — 

Chariots,  and  horse,  and  foot;    who,  when  the  scale. 

Charged  with  Assyria's  doom,  was  sinking  fast, 

Twice  had  its  fall  arrested.      Once  again, 

When  seemed  that  utter  ruin  hovered  nigh, 

The  chariot  of  Assyria's  beauteous  queen 

From  rank  to  rank  flew  on  :    and,  as  they  saw. 

The  warriors'  breasts,  as  with  new  soul  infused. 

Like  beacons  freshly  kindled,  burst  at  once 

Into  intensest  flame.      Unhelmed,  unarmed. 

Her  ebon  hair  loose  flying  in  the  wind. 

She  raised  aloft  her  arms,  her  voice  uplift, 

And  bade  them  on  to  glory.     As  the  star 

Of  morning,  while  the  sun  yet  sleeps  below. 

And  the  grey  mist  is  on  the  dewy  earth. 

Her  face  was  pale  and  radiant.     Like  a  shape 

From  heaven  descended,  and  to  mortal  harm 

Impassive,  gloriously  and  fearlessly 

Through  the  death-laden  air  she  flew  along. 

Her  spirit  fired  the  host;    with  deafening  shouts 

Onward  they  bore  ;    and,  for  a  time,  the  Medes 

Compelled,  though  slowly,  backward.  , 


532 


MARY  HOWITT. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  RICHARD  BURNELL. 

Part  I. 

From  his  bed  rose  Kicliard  Burnell 

At  the  early  dawn  of  day, 
Ere  the  bells   of  London  city 

Welcomed  in  the  morn  of  May. 

Early  on  that  bright  May  morning 
Kose  the  young  man  from  his  bedp 

He,  the  happiest  man  in  London, 
And  thus  to  himself  he  said  : — 


" '  When  the  men  and  maids  are  dancing. 
And  the  folk  are  mad  with  glee. 

In  the  Temple's  shady  gardens 

Let  me  walk  and  talk  with  thee !' 


"Thus  my  Alice  spake  last  even, 
Thus  with  trembling  lips  she  spake, 

And  those  blissful  words  have  kept  me 
Through  the  live-long  night  awake. 


"'Tis  a  joy  beyond  expression. 
When  we  first,  in  truth,  perceive 

That  the  love  we  long  have  cherished 
Will  not  our  fond  hearts  deceive ! 
533 


"  Never  dared  I  to  confess  it — 
Deeds  of  homage  spoke  instead ; 

True  love  is  its  own  revealer, 
She  must  know  it !     oft  I  said. 

"  All  my  words,  and  all  my  actions, 
But  one  meaning  could  impart; 

Love  can  love's  least  sign  interpret, 
And  she  reads  my  inmost  heart. 


"  And  her  good  old  merchant  father,- 
Father  he  has  been  to   me — 

Saw  the  love  grow  up  between  us, 
Saw — and  was  well  pleased  to  see. 
534 


MARY  HOWITT. 


"Seven  years  I  truly  served  him, 
Now  my  time  is  at  "an  end ; 

Master  is  he  now  no  longer : 
Father  will  be — has  been  friend. 


"  I  was  left  betimes  an  orphan, 

Heir  unto  great  merchant-wealth, 
But  the  iron  rule  of  kinsfolk 
,  Dimmed  my  youth,  and  sapped  my  health. 

"  Death  had  been  my  early  portion 
Had  not  my  good  guardian  come ; 

He,  the  father  of  my  Alice, 
And  conveyed  me  to  his  home. 

"  Here  began  a  new  existence, — 
Then  how  new  the  love  of  friends! 

And  for  all  the  child's  afflictions 
Each  one  strove  to  make  amends. 

"Late  my  spring-time  came,  but  quickly 

Youth's  rejoicing  currents  run, 
And  my  inner  life   unfolded 

Like  a  flower  before  the  sun. 

"  Hopes,  and  aims,  and  aspirations 

Grew  within   the  growing  boy; 
Life  had  new  interpretation  ; 

Manhood  brought  increase  of  joy. 

"  In  and  over  all  was  Alice, 

Life-infusing,  like   the  spring ; 
My  soul's  soul !    even  joy  without  her 

Was  a  poor  and  barren  thing ! 
535 


THE  BALLAD  OF  RICHARD  BURNELL. 

"  And  she  spoke  last  eve  at  parting, 
'When  the  folk  are  mad  with  glee, 

In  the  Temple's  pleasant  gardens 
Let  me  walk  and  talk  with  thee !' 

''As  she  spoke,  her  sweet  voice  trembled,- 
Love  such  tender  tones  can  teach ! 

And  those  words  have  kept  me  waking. 
And  the  manner  of  her  speech ! 

"  For  such  manner  has  deep  meaning," 
Said  young  Burnell,  blithe  and  gay ; — 

And  the  bells  of  London  city 
Pealed  a  welcome  to  the  May. 


Part  H. 


Whilst  the  folk  were  mad  with  pleasure, 
'Neath  the  elm-tree's  vernal  shade, 

In  the  Temple's  quiet  gar.dens 

Walked  the  young  man  and  the  maid. 

On  his  arm  her  hand  was  resting. 
And  her  eyes  were  on  the  ground ; 

She  was  speaking,  he  was  silent ; 
Not  a  word  his  tongue  had  found. 

"Friend  beloved,"  she  thus  addressed  him, 
"I  have  faith  and  hope  in  thee! 

Thou  canst  do  what  no  one  else  can — 
Thou  canst  be  a  friend  to  me ! 
536 


MARY  HOWITT. 

"  Richard,  we  have  lived  together 
All  these  years  of  happy  youth  ; 

Have,  as  sister  and  as  brother. 
Lived  in  confidence  and  truth. 

"Thou  from  me  hast  hid  no  feelings, 
Thy  whole  heart  to  me  is  known  ; 

I — I  only  have  kept  from  thee 
One  dear,  little  thought  alone. 


"  Have  I  wronged  thee  in  so  doing  ? 

Then  forgive  me  !     But  give  ear ; 
'Tis  to  bare  my  heart  before  thee 

That  I  now  am  with  thee  here. 


"  Well  thou  know'st  my  father  loves  thee ; 

'Tis  his  wish  that  we  should  wed, — 
I  shame  not  to  speak  thus  frankly — 

Wish,  or  ivill  more  justly  said. 

"  But  this  cannot  be,  my  brother. 

Cannot  be — 'twere  nature's  wrong  ! — 

I  have  said  so  to  my  father ; 

But  thou  know'st  his  will  is  strong." 

Not  a  word  spake  Richard  BurncU : 

Not  a  word  came  to  his  lips ; 
Like  one  tranced  he  stood  and  listened ; 

Life  to  him  was  in  eclipse. 

In  a  lower  tone  she  murmured, 
^Murmured  like  a  brooding  dove, 

"  Know  thou, — Leonard  Woodvil  loves  me,- 
And — that  he  has  won  my  love." 
537 


THE  BALLAD  OF  RICHARD  BURNELL. 

— Came  a  pause.     The  words  she  uttered 
Seemed  to  turn  him  mto  stone ; 

Pale  he  stood  and  mute  beside  her, 
And  with  blushes  she  went  on. 

"  This  is  known  unto  my  father ; — 
Leonard  is  well  known  to  thee, 

Thou  hast  praised  him,  praised  him  often — 
Oh,  how  dear  such  praise  to  nie! 

« 

"But  my  father,  stern  and  steadfast, 
Will  not  list  to  Leonard's  prayer; — 

And  'tis  only  thou  canst  move  him, — 
Only  thou  so  much  canst  dare. 

"Tell  my  father  firmly,  freely. 
That  we  only  love  each  other — 

'Tis  the  truth,  thou  know'st  it,  Richard, — 
As  a  sister  and  a  brother! 

"Tell  my  father,  if  we  wedded. 
Thou  and  I,  it  would  be  guilt! 

Thus  it  is  that  thou  canst  aid  us — 
And  thou  wilt — I  know  thou  wilt! 

"Yes,  'tis  thus  that  thou  must  aid  us, 
And  thou  wilt!      I  say  no  more! — 

We've  been  friends,  but  this  Avill  make  us 
Better  friends  than  heretofore !" 

Yet  some  moments  he  was  silent; 

His  good  heart  was  well-nigh  broke; 
She  was  blinded  to  his  anguish ; — 

And  "I  will!"    at  length  he  spoke. 
538 


MARY  HOWITT. 


Part  III. 


They  were  wedded.     'Twas  a  wedding 

That,  had  far  and  high  renown, 
And  from  morning  until  even 

Rang  the  bells  of  London  town. 

Time  went  on:    the  good  old  merchant 

Wore  a  cloud  upon  his  brow : 
"Wherefore  thus?"  his  friends  addressed  hiin, 

"No  man  should  be  blithe  as  thou!" 


"  In  my  old  age  I  am  lonely," 

Said  the  merchant,   "  she  is  gone  ; — 

And  young  Burnell,  he  I  nurtured, 
He  who  was  to  me  a  son ; 

"  He  has  left  me  ! — I'm  deserted — 
E'en  an  old  man  feels  such  woe ! 

'Twas  but  natural  she  should  marry. 
But  he  should  not  have  served  me  so. 

"  'Twas  not  that  which  I  expected ! 

He  was  very  dear  to  me, — 
And  I  thought  no  London  merchant 

Would  have  stood  as  high  as  he ! 

"  He  grew  very  strange  and  moody, 
^Vliat  the  cause  I  cannot  say ; — 

And  he  left  mc  when  my  daughter, 
My  poor  Alice,  went  away! 
539 


"I  had  been  a  father  to  him, 

He  to  me  was  like  a  son : 
Young  folks  should  have  more  reflect  ion, - 

'Twas  what  /  could  not  have  done  ! 

"  True,  he  writes  me  duteous  letters ; 

Calls. me  father,  tells  me  all 
That  in  foreign  parts  is  doing, — 

But  young  people  write  so  small, 
540 


MAKY  HOWITT. 

"That  I'm  often  forced  to  leave  them, 
Pleasant  letters  though  they  be, 

Until  Alice  comes  from  Richmond, 
Then  she  reads  them  out  to  me. 


"  Alice  fain  would  have  me  with  her ; 

Leonard  well  deserves  my  praise — 
But  he's  not  my  Richai'd  Burnell, 

Knows  not  my  old  wants  and  ways ! 

"No,  my  friends,  Til  not  deny  it. 

It  has  cut  me  to  the  heart. 
That  the  son  of  my  adoption 

Thus  has  played  a  cruel  part !" 

So  the  merchant  mourned  and  murmured ; 

And  all  foreign  charms  unheeding. 
Dwelt  the  lonely  Kichard  Burnell, 

With  his  bruised  heart  still  bleeding. 


Part  IV. 


Time  went  on,  and  in  the  sprirg-tide, 
When  the  birds  began   to  build. 

And  tlie  heart  of  all  creation 
WItli  a  vast  delight  was  tilled. 

Came  a  letter  unto  Alice — 

Then  a  babe  lay  on  her  breast-;- 

'Twas  the  first  which  Richard  Burnell 
Unto  Alice  had  addressed. 
5tl 


THE  BALLAD  OF  KICHARD  BURNELL. 

Few  the  words  which  it  contained, 
But  each  word  was  like  a  sigh ; 

"I  am  sick  and  very  lonely; — 
Let  me  see  thee  ere  I  die! 

"  In  this  time  of  tribidation 
Thou  wilt  be  a  friend  to  me : 

Therefore  in  the  Temple  Gardens 
Let  me  once  more  speak  with  thee." 

Once  more  in  the  Temple  Gardens 
Sat  they  'neath  the  bright  blue  sky, 

With  the  leafage  thick  around  them, 
And  the  river  rolling  by. 

Pale  and  weak  was  Richard  Burnell, 
Gone  all  merely  outward  grace. 

Yet  the  stamp  of  meek  endurance 
Gave  sad  beauty  to  his  face. 

Silent  by  his  side  sat  Alice, 

Now  no  word  her  tongue  could  speak. 
All  her  soul  was  steeped  in  pity, 

And  large  tears  were  on  her  cheek. 

Burnell  spake:    "Within  these  Gardens 
Thy  commands  on  me  were  laid, 

And,  although  my  heart  was  breaking, 
Yet  were  those  commands  obeyed. 

"What  I  suffered  no  one  knoweth, 
Nor  sh.all  know,  I  proudly  said, 

And,  when  grew  the  grief  too  mighty. 
Then — there  was  no  help — I  fled. 
542 


MARY  HOWITT. 

"Yes,  I  loved  thee,  long  had  loved  thee, 

And  alone  the  God  above. 
He,  who  at  that  time  sustamed  me. 

Knows  the  measure  of  my  love ! 

"  Do  not  let  these  words  displease  thee ; 

Life's  sore  battle  soon  will  cease ; 
I  have  fallen  amid  the  conflict, 

But  within  my  soul  is  peace. 

"It  has  been  a  fiery  trial. 
But  the  fiercest  pang  is  past ; 

Once  more  I  am  come  amongst  you — 
Qh !    stand  by  me  at  the  last ! 

"  Leonard  will  at  times  come  to  me. 

And  thy  fixther.      I  will  try 
To  be  cheerful  in  his  presence. 

As  I  was  in  days  gone  by. 

"  Bitter  has  it  been  to  leave  him ; 

But  in  all  my  heart's  distress. 
The  great  anguish  which  consumed  me 

Seemed  to  swallow  up  the  less. 

"Let  me  go!    my  soul  is  wearied, 
No  fond  heart  of  me  has  need, 

Life  has  no  more  duties  for  me ; — 
I  am  but  a  broken  reed ! 

"  Let  me  go,  ere  courage  faileth. 
Gazing,  gazing  thus  on  thee ! — 

But  in  life's  last  awful  moment, 
Alice !    thou  wilt  stand  by  me !" 
543 


THE  BALLAD  OF  EICHARD  BURNELL. 

From  her  seat  rose  Alice  Woodvil, 
And  in  steadfast  tones  began, 

Like  a  strong  consoling  angel, 
To  address  the  dying  man. 

"Not  in  death  alone,  my  brother. 
Would  I  aid  thee  in  the  strife ; 

I  would  fain  be  thy  sustainer 
In  the  fiercer  fight  of  life. 

"With  the  help  of  God,  thy  spirit 
Shall  not  in  this  conflict  yield ; 

Prayer,  the  key  which  opens  heaven, 
Is  the  Christian's  sword  and  shield.  . 


"  God  will  aid  thee !     We  will  hold  thee 
By  our  love  ! — thou  shalt  not  go  ! — 

And  from  out  thy  wounded  spirit. 
We  will  pluck  the  thorns  of  woe. 

"  Say  not  life  has  no  more  duties 

Which  can  claim  thee!     Where  are  then 

All  the  sinners ;    the  neglected  ; 
All  the  weeping  sons  of  men  ? 

"Ah,  my  friend,  hast  thou  forgotten 
All  our  dreams  of  early  days? 

How  we  would  instruct  poor  children, 
How  Ave  would  the  fallen  raise ! 

"  God  has  not  to  me  permitted 
Such  great  work  of  human  love ; 

He  has  marked  me  out  a  lower 
Path  of  duty  whei'e  to  move. 
544 


MARY  no  WITT. 

"But  to  tliee,  Ilis  chosen  servant, 

Is  this  higher  lot  allowed  ; 
He  has  brought  thee  through  deep  waters, 

Through  the  furnace,  through  the  cloud ; 

"  He  has  made  of  thee  a  mourner, 

Like  the  Christ,  that  thou  may'st  rise 

To  a  purer  height  of  glory, 

Through  the  pangs  of  sacrifice ! 

"'Tis  alone  of  His  appointing, 

That  thy  feet  on  thorns  have  trod ; 

.Suffering,  woe,  renunciation. 
Only  bring  us  nearer  God. 

"  And  when  nearest  Him,  then  largest 
The  enfranchised  heart's  embrace : — 

It  was  Christ,  the  Man  rejected. 
Who  redeemed  the  human  race. 

"  Say  not,  then,  thou  hast  no  duties ; — 

Friendless  outcasts  on  thee  call, 
And  the  sick  and  the  afflicted, 

And  the  children,  more  than  all. 

"  Oh,  my  friend,  rise  up,  and  follow 
Where  the  hand  of  God  shall  lead  ; 

lie  has  brought  thee  through  affliction, 
IJut  to  fit  thee  for  His  need!" 

Thus  she  spoke  ;    and  as  from  midnight 

Springs  the  opal-tinted  morn, 
So,  within  his  dreary  spirit, 

A  new  day  of  life  was  born. 

545  M  « 


Strength  sublime  may  rise  from  weakness, 
Groans  be  turned  to  songs  of  praise, 

Nor  are  life's  divinest  labours 
Only  told  by  length  of  days. 


Young  he  died  :    but  deeds  of  mercy 
Beautified  his  life's  short  span, 

And  he  left  his  worldly  substance 
To  complete  what  he  began. 
546 


.   ARNOLD. 


TO  A  GIPSY  CHILD  BY  THE  SHORE. 

DOUGLAS,  ISLE  OF  MAN. 

Who  taught  this  pleading  to  unpractis'd  eyes? 

Who  hid  such  import  in  an   infant's  gloom"? 
Who  lent  thee,  child,  this  meditative  guise? 

AVhat  clouds  thy  forehead,  and  fore-dates  thy  doom  ? 

Lo !    sails  that  gleam  a  moment  and  are  gone ; 

The  swinging  waters,  and  the  cluster' d  pier. 
Not  idly  Earth  and  Ocean  labour  on, 

Nor  idly  do  these  sea-birds  hover  near. 

But  thou  whom  superfluity  of  joy 

AVafts  not  from  thine  own   thoughts,  nor  longings  vain. 
Nor  weariness,  the  full  fed  soul's  annoy ; 

Remaining  in  thy  hunger  and  thy  pain  : 

Thou,  drugging  pain  by  patience  ;    half  averse 

From  thine  own  mother's  breast,  that  knows  not   thee  ; 

With  eyes  that  sought  thine  eyes  thou  didst  converse. 
And  that  soul-searching  vision  fell  on  me. 

Glooms  that  go  deep  as  thine  I  have  not  known  : 
Moods  of  fantastic  sadness,  nothing  Avortli- 

Thy  sorrow  and  thy  calmness  are  thine  own  : 
Glooms  that  enhance  and  glorify  this  earth. 

Wiiat  mood  wears  like  com])lexion  to  thy  woe? — 
His,  Avho  in  mountain  glens,  at  noon  of  day. 

Sits  rapt,  and  hears  the  battle  break  below? — 
Ah  I    thine  was  not  the  shelter,  but  the  fray. 

-.47 


TO  A  GIPSY  CHILD  BY  THE  SHORE. 

What  exile's,  changing  bitter  thoughts  with  glad  ? 

What  seraph's,  in  some  alien  planet  born? — 
No  exile's  dream  was  ever  half  so  sad. 

Nor  any  angel's  sorrow  so  Ibrlorn. 

Is  the  calm  thine  of  stoic  souls,  Avho  weigh 
Life  well,  and  find  it  wanting,  nor  deplore : 

But  in  disdainful  silence  turn  away. 

Stand  mute,  self-centred,  stern,  and  dream  no  more? 


I 


Or  do  I  wait,  to  hear  some  gray-hair'd  king 

Unravel  all  his  many-colour'd  lore :  ■ 

Whose  mind  hath  known  all  arts  of  governing, 

Mus'd  much,  lov'd  life  a  little,  loath'd  it  more  ? 

Down  the  pale  cheek  long  lines  of  shadow  slope. 

Which  years,  and  curious  thought,  and  suffering  give — 

Thou  hast  foreknown  the   vanity  of  hope. 
Foreseen  thy  harvest — yet  proceed'st  to  live. 

0  meek  anticipant  of  that  sure  pain 
Whose   sureness  gray-hair'd  scholars  hardly  learn  ! 

What  wonder  shall  time  breed,  to  swell  thy  strain  ? 

What  heavens,  what  earth,  what  suns  shalt  thou  discern  ? 

Ere  the  long  night  whose  stillness  brooks  no  star, 
Match  that  funereal  aspect  with  her  pall, 

1  think,  thou  wilt  have  fathom'd  life  too  far, 
Have  known  too  much — or  else  forgotten  all. 

The  Guide  of  our  dark  steps  a  triple  veil 

Betwixt  our  senses  and  our  sorrow  keeps : 
Hath  sown  with  cloudless  passages  the  tale 

Of  grief,  and  eas'd  us  with  a  thousand  sleeps. 

Ah !    not  the  nectarous  poppy  lovers  use. 

Not  daily  labour's  dull,  Lethsean  spring. 
Oblivion   in  lost  angels  can  infuse 

Of  the  soil'd  glory,  and  the  trailing  wing; 

548 


ARNOLD. 

And  though  thou  glean,  what  strenuous  gleaners  may, 
In  the  throng'd  fields  where  winning  comes  by  strife : 

And   though  the  just  sun  gild,  as  all  men  pray, 
Some  reaches  of  thy  storm-vext  stream  of  life ; 

Though  that  blank  sunshine  blind  thee  ;    tliough  the  cloud 
That  sever'd  the  world's  march  and  thine  is  gone : 

Though  ease  dulls  grace,  and  AVisdom  be  too  proud 
To  halve  a  lodging  that  Avas  all  her  own  : 

Once  ere  the  day  decline,  thou  shalt  discern, 
Oh  once,  ere  night,  in  thy  success,  thy  chain : 

Ere  the  long  evening  close,  thou  shalt  return, 
And  wear  this  majesty  of  grief  again. 


>'A) 


BENNETT. 


BABY'S     SHOES. 

Oh,  those  little,  those  little  blue  shoes! 

Those  shoes  that  no  little  feet  use. 
Oh,  the  price  were  high 
That  those   shoes  would  buy, 

Those  little  blue   unused  shoes! 

For  they  hold  the  small  shape  of  feet 
That  no  more  their  mother's  eyes  meet, 

That,  by  God's  good  will. 

Years  since  grew  still. 
And  ceased  from  their  totter  so  sweet. 

And  oh,  since  that  baby  slept. 

So  hushed,  how  the  mother  has  kept. 

With  a  tearful  pleasure. 

That  little  dear  treasure, 
And  over  them  thought  and  wept ! 

For  they  mind  her  for  evermore 
Of  a  patter  along  the  floor ; 

And  blue  eyes  she  sees 

Look  up  from  her  knees 
With  the  look  that  in  life  they  wore. 

As  they  lie  before  her  there, 
There  babbles  from  chair  to  chair 
A  little  sweet  face 
That's  a  gleam  in  the  place, 
With  its  little  gold  curls  of  hair. 

550 


BENNETT. 

Then,  oh,  wonder  not  that  her  heart 
From  all  else  would  rather  part 

Than  those  tiny  blue  shoes 

That  no  little  feet  use, 
And  whose  sight  makes  such  fond  tears  start ! 


LILIAN'S  EPITAPH. 

Thou  hast  been  and  thou  hast  fled, 

Rose,  sweet  rose ; 
Budded,  flushed,  and,  ah  !    art  dead, 

Rose,  sweet  rose ; 
Yet  oblivion  may  not  kill 
Dreams  of  thee,  our  thoughts  that  fill, 
And  for  us  thou'rt  blooming  still. 

Rose,  sweet  rose. 

Breathing  rose,  nor  might'st  thou  stay, 

Rose,  sweet  rose ; 
Thou  too,  woe !    hast  passed  away. 

Rose,  sweet  rose ; 
Yet  though  death  had  heart  to  sever 
Life  and  thee,  thou'rt  from  us  never; 
No,  in  thought  thou'rt  with  us  ever, 

Rose,  sweet  rose. 


.")! 


ALEXANDER  SMITH. 

SCENE  — THE  BANKS   OF   A   KIVER. 

'Tis  that  loveliest  stream. 

I've  learned  by  heart  its  sweet  and  devious  courh^o 

By  frequent  tracing,  as  a  lover  learns 

The  features  of  his  best  beloved's  face. 

In  memory  it  runs,  a  shining  thread. 

With  sunsets  strung  upon  it  thick,  like  pearls. 

From  yonder  trees  I've  seen  tlie  western  sky 

All  washed  with  fire,  while,  in  the  midst,  the  sun 

Beat  like  a  pulse,  welling  at  ev'ry  beat 

A  spreading  wave  of  light.      Where  yonder  church 

Stands  up  to  heaven,  as  if  to  intercede 

For  sinful  hamlets  scatterd  at  its  feet, 

I  saw  the  dreariest  sight-      The  sun  was  down, 

And  all  the  west  was  paved  with  sullen  fire. 

I  cried,  "  Behold !    the  barren  beach  of  hell 

At  ebb  tide."     The  ghost  of  one  bright  hour 

Comes  from  its  grave  and  stands  before  me  now. 

'Twas  at  the  close  of  a  long  summer  day, 

As  we  were  sitting  on  yon  grassy  slope. 

The  sunset  hung  before  us  like  a  dream 

That  shakes  a  demon  in  his  fiery  lair ; 

The  clouds  were  standing  round  the  setting  sun 

Like  gaping  caves,  fantastic  pinnacles, 

Citadels  throbbing  in  their  own  fierce  light. 

Tall  spires  that  came  and  went  like  spires  of  flanic, 

Cliffs  quivering  with  fire-snow,  and  peaks 

Of  piled  gorgeousness,  and  rocks  of  fire 

A-tilt  and  poised,  bare  beaches,  crimson  seas — 

All  these  were  huddled  in  that  dreadful  west, 

All  shook  and  ti'embled  in  unsteadfast  light. 


And   from   the  centre  blazed  the  angiy  sun, 
Stern  a?  the  unlasli'd  eye  of  God  a-glare 
O'er  evening  city  with  its  boom  of  sin. 
I  do  rememl)er,  as  we  journeyed  home, 
(That  dreadful  sunset  burnt  into  our  brains,) 
"With  what  a  soothing  came  the  naked  moon. 
She,  like  a  swimmer  Avho  has  found  his  ground. 
Came  rippling  up  a  silver  strand  of  cloud, 


PICTURES. 

And  plunged  from  the  other  side  into  the  night. 

I  and  that  friend,  the  feeder  of  my  soul, 

Did  wander  up  and  down  these  banks  for  years, 

Talking  of  blessed  hopes  and  holy  faiths. 

How  sin  and  weej^ing  all  should  pass  away 

In  the  calm  sunshine  of  the  earth's  old  age. 

Breezes  are  blowing  in  old  Chaucer's  verse ; 

'Twas  here  we  drank  them.     Here  for  hours  we  hung 

O'er  the  fine  pants  and  trembles  of  a  line. 

Oft,  standing  on  a  hill's  green  head,  we  felt 

Breezes  of  love,  and  joy,  and  melody. 

Blow  through  us,  as  the  winds  blow  through  the  i-ky. 

Oft  with  our  souls  in  our  eyes  all  day  we  fed 

On  summer  landscapes,  silver-veined  with  streams. 

O'er  which  the  air  hung  silent  in  its  joy ; 

With  a  great  city  lying  in  its  smoke, 

A  monster  sleeping  in  its  own  thick  breath ; 

And  surgy  plains  of  wheat,  and  ancient  woods 

In  the  calm  evenings  cawed  by  clouds  of  rooks, 

Acres  of  moss,  and  long  black  strips  of  firs. 

And  sweet  cots  dropt  in  green,  where  children  played. 

To  us  unheard ;    till,  gradual,  all  was  lost 

In  distance-haze  to  a  blue  rim  of  hills, 

Upon  whose  heads  came  down  the  closing  sky. 


PICTURES. 


The  lark  is  singing  in  the  blinding  sky, 
Hedges  are  white  with  May.     The  bridegroom  sea 
Is  toying  with  the  shore,  his  wedded  bride, 
And,  in  the  fulness  of  his  marriage  joy. 
He  decorates  her  tawny  brow  with  shells, 

554 


Retires  a  space,  to  sec  how  fair  she  looks. 
Then,  proud,  runs  up  to  kiss  her.      All  is  tiiir — 


All  glad,  tVoui  grass  to  sun 

555 


PICTURES. 


— One  nymph  slumbering  lay, 
A  sweet  dream  'neath  her  eyelids,  her  white  limbs 
Sinking  full  softly  in  the  violets  dim  ; 
When  timbrelled  troops  rushed  past  with  branches  green. 
One  in  each  fountain,  riched  with  golden  sands, 
With  her  delicious  face  a  moment  seen. 
And  limbs  faint  gleaming  through  their  watery  veil. 


— A  grim  old  king, 
Whose  blood  leapt  madly  when  the  trumpets  brayed 
To  joyous  battle  'mid  a  storm  of  steeds, 
Won  a  rich  kingdom  on  a  battle-day; 
But  in  the  sunset  he  was  ebbing  fast. 
Ringed  by  his  weeping  lords.     His  left  hand  held 
His  white  steed,  to  the  belly  splashed  Avith  blood, 
That  seemed  to  mourn  him  with  his  drooping  head  ; 
His  right,  his  broken  brand ;    and  in  his  ear 
His  old  victorious  banners  flap  the  winds. 
He  called  his  faitliful  herald  to  his  side — 
"Go!    tell  the  dead  I  come!"     With  a  proud  smile, 
The  warrior  with  a  stab  let  out  his  soul, 
Wliich  fled,  and  shrieked  through  all  the  other  world, 
"Ye  dead!     My  master  comes!"     And  there  was  pause 
Till  the  great  Shade  should  enter. 


556 


BAILEY. 


A   SUMMER   NIGHT. 


The  last  high  upward  slant  of  sun  on  the  treeSj 
Like  a  dead  soldier's  sword  upon  his  pall, 
Seems  to  console  earth  for  the  glory  gone. 
Oh !    I  could  weep  to  see  the  day  die  thus ; 
The  death-bed  of  a  day,  how  beautiful ! 
Linger,  ye  clouds,  one  moment  longer  there ; 
Fan  it  to  slumber  with  your  golden  wings ! 
Like  pious  prayers,  ye  seem  to  soothe  its  end. 

557 


WORDS. 

It  will  wake  no  more  till  the  all-revealing  day ; 

When,  like  a  drop  of  water,  greatened  bright 

Into  a  shadow,  it  shall  show  itself 

With  all  its  little  tyrannous  things  and  deeds, 

Unhomed  and  clear.     The  day  hath  gone  to  God,- 

Straight — like  an  infant's  spirit,  or  a  mocked 

And  mourning  messenger  of  Grace  to  man. 

Would  it  had  taken  me  too  on  its  wing! 

My  end  is  nigh.     Would  I  might  die  outright, — 

So  o'er  the  sunset  clouds  of  red  mortality 

The  emerald  hues  of  deathlessness  diffuse 

Their  glory,  heightening  to  the   starry  blue 

Of  all  embosoming  eternity. 

Who  that  hath  lain  lonely  on  a  high  hill. 

In  the  imperious  silence  of  full  noon. 

With  nothing  but  the  clear  dark  sky  about  him, 

Like  God's  Hand  laid  upon  the  head  of  earth, — 

But  hath  expected  that  some  natural  spirit 

Should  start  out  of  the  universal  air, 

And,  gathering  his  cloudy  robe  around  him. 

As  one  in  act  to  teach  mysterious  things, 

Explain  that  he  must  die? 


WORDS. 

The  poet  in  his  work  reflects  his  soul. 
As  some  lone  nymph,  beside  a  woodland  well, 
Whose  clear  white  limbs,  like  animated  light, 
Make  glad  the  heart  and  sanctify  the  sight, 
The  soft  and  shadowy  miracle  of  her  form. 
The  bard's  aim  is  to  give  us  thoughts ;    his  art 
Lieth  in  giving  them  as  bright  as  may  be. 

.-58 


PHILIP  JAMES  BAILEY. 

Words  are  the  motes  of  thought,  and  nothing  more. 
Words  are  like  sea-shells  on  the  shore ;    they  show 
Where  the  mind  ends,  and  not  how  far  it  has  been. 
Let  every  thought,  too,  soldier-like,  be  stripped, 
And  roughly  looked  over.     The  dress  of  words, 
Like  to  the  lioman  girl's  enticing  gai'b, 
Should  let  the  play  of  limb  be  seen  through  it, 
And  the  round  rising  form.      A  mist  of  words, 
Like  halos  round  the  moon,  though  they  enlarge 
The  seeming  size  of  thoughts,  make  the  light  less 
Doubly.     It  is  the  thought  writ  down  we  want, 
Not  its  effect, — not  likenesses  of  likenesses. 
And  such  descriptions  are  not,  more  than  gloves 
Instead  of  hands  to  sliake,  enough  for  us. 
As  in  the  good  the  fair ;    simplicity 
Is  Nature's  first  step,  and  the  last  of  Art. 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  LADY. 

Her  form  was  all  humanity. 

Her  soul  all  God's ;    in  spirit  and  in  form, 
Like  fair.      Her  cheek  had  the  pale  pearly  pink 
Of  sea-shells,  the  world's  sweetest  tint,  as  though 
She  lived,  one  half  might  deem,  on  roses  sopped 
In  silver  dew ;    she  spake  as  with   the  voice 
Of  spheral  harmony,  which  greets  the  soul 
When  at  the  hour  of  death  the  saved  one  knoA\  s 
His  sister  angels  near ;    her  eye  M'as  as 
The  golden  fane  the  setting  sun  doth  just 
Imblaze  ;    which   shows,  till  Heaven  comes  down  again 
All  other  lights  but  grades  of  gloom;    her  dark, 
Long  rolling  locks  were  as  a  stream  the  slave 
Might  search  for  gold,  and,  searching,  find. 

5r,d 


KNOWLES. 
THE  APPEAL  AND  THE  REPROOF. 

JULIA  AND  MASTER  WALTER. 

Walter.     AVhat !    run  the  waves  so  high  ?     Not  ready  yet ! 
Your  lorrl  Avill  soon  be  here !     The  guests  collect. 


Julia.     Show  me  some  way  to  'scape  these  nuptials !     Do  it ! 
Some  opening  for  avoidance  or  escape, — 
Or  to  thy  charge  I'll  lay  a  broken  heart ! 

560 


KNOWLES. 

It  may  be,  broken  vows,  and  blasted  honour! 
Or  else  a  mind  distraught ! 

Walter.  What's  this? 

Julia.  The  strait 

I'm  fallen  into  my  patience  cannot  bear ! 
It  frights  my  reason — warps  my  sense  of  virtue ! 
Keligion  ! — changes  me  into  a  thing 
I  look  at  with  abhorring ! 

Walter.  Listen  to  me. 

Julia.     Listen  to  me,  and  heed  me !      If  this  contract 
Thou  hold'st  me  to — abide  thou  the  result! 
Answer  to  Heaven  for  what  I  suffer ! — act ! 
Prepare  thyself  for  such  calamity 
To  fall  on  me,  and  those  Avhose  evil  stars 
Have  link'd  them  with  me,  as  no  past  mishap, 
HoAvever  rare,  and  marvellously  sad, 
Can  parallel !    lay  thy  account  to  live 
A  smileless  life,  die  an  unpitied  death — 
Abhorr'd,  abandon'd  of  thy  kind, — as  one 
Who  had  the  guarding  of  a  young  maid's  peace, — 
Look'd  on  and  saw  her  rashly  peril  it ; 
And  when  she  saw  her  danger,  and  confcss'd 
Her  fault,  compell'd  her  to  complete  her  ruin ! 

Walter.  Hast  done? 

Julia.  Another  moment,  and  I  have. 

Be  warn'd!     Beware  how  you  abandon  me 
To  myself!     I'm  young,  rash,  inexperienced!   tempted 
By  most  insufferable  misery  ! 
Bold,  desperate,  and  reckless !     Thou  hast  age. 
Experience,  wisdom,  and  coUectedness, — 

r>Gi  N  X 


THE  APPEAL  AND  THE  REPROOF. 

Power,  freedom, — everything  that  I  have  not, 

Yet  want,  as  none  e'er  wanted!     Thou  canst  save  me, 

Thou  ought'st!    thou  must!     I  tell  thee,  at  his  feet 

I'll  fall  a  corse — ere  mount  his  bridal  bed! 

So  choose  betwixt  my  rescue  and  my  grave ; — 

And  quickly  too!     The  hour  of  sacrifice 

Is  near!     Anon  the  immolating  priest 

Will  summon  me!     Devise  some  speedy  means 

To  cheat  the  altar  of  its  victim.      Do  it! 

Nor  leave  the  task  to  me ! 

Walte7\  Hast  done  ? 

Julia.  I  have. 

Walter.     Then  list  to  me — and  silently,  if  not 
AVith  patience. —  [^Brings  chairs  for  himself  and  her. 

How  I  watch'd  thee  from  thy  childhood, 
ril  not  recall   to  thee.      Thy  father's  wisdom — 
Whose  humble  instrument  I  was — directed 
Your  nonage  should  be  pass'd  in  privacy, 
From  your  apt  mind,  that  far  outstripp'd  your  years, 
Fearing  the  taint  of  an  infected  world  ;  — 
For  in  the  rich  ground,  weeds,  once  taking  root, 
Grow  strong  as  flowers.      He  might  be  right  or  wrong ! 
I  thought  him  right ;    and  therefore  did  his  bidding. 
Most  certainly  he  loved  you — so  did  I ; 
Ay !    Avell  as  I  had  been  myself  your  father  ! 

[iJ/s  hand  is  resting  upon  his  knee.     Julia  attempts  to  take  it. 
He  withdraws  it;  looks  at  her.     She  hangs  her  head- 
Well  ;    you  may  take  my  hand !     I  need  not  say 
How  fast  you  grew  in  knowledge,  and  in  goodness, — 
That  hope  could  scarce  enjoy  its  golden  dreams, 
So  soon  fulfilment  realized  them  all ! 

5G2 


KNOWLES. 

Enough.     You  came  to  womanhood.     Your  heart 

Pure  as  the  leaf  of  the  consummate  bud, 

That's  new  unfoklcd  by  the  smiling  sun, 

And  ne'er  knew  blight  nor  canker!     When  a  good  woman 

Is  fitly  mated,  she  grows  doubly  good, 

How  sood  soe'er  before !     I  found  the  man 

I  thought  a  match  for  thee ;    and,  soon  as  found, 

Proposed  him  to  thee.     'Twas  your  fother's  Avill, 

Occasion  offering,  you  should  be  married 

Soon  as  you  reach'd  to  womanhood.     You  liked 

My  choice — accepted  him.     AVe  came  to  town  ; 

Where,  by  important  matters,  summon'd  thence, 

I  left  you,  an  affianced  bride ! 

Julia.  You  did  ! 

You  did! 

Walter.     Nay,  check  thy  tears!     Let  judgment  now, 
Not  passion,  be  awake.      On  my  return, 
I  found  thee — what  ?     I'll  not  describe  the  thing 
I  found  thee  then  !     I'll  not  describe  my  pangs 
To  see  thee  such  a  thing  !     The  engineer 
Who  lays  the  last  stone  of  his  sea-built  tower 
It  cost  him  years  and  years  of  toil  to  raise. 
And,  smiling  at  it,  tells  the  winds  and  waves 
To  roar  and  Avhistlc  now — but,  in  a  night, 
Heholds  the  tempest  sporting  in  its  place — 
TNIay  look  aghast,  as  I  did  ! 


563 


MASSEY. 


OUR  WEE  WHITE  ROSE. 


All  in  our  marriage  garden 

Grew,  smiling  up  to  God, 
A  bonnier  Hower  than  ever 

Suckt  the  green  warmth  of  the  sod ; 
O  beautiful  unfathomably 

Its  little  life  unfurled  ; 
And  crown  of  all  things  Avas  our  Avee 

White  Rose  of  all  the  world. 

From  out  a  balmy  bosom, 

Ota*  bud  of  beauty  grew  : 
It  fed  on  smiles  for  sunshine  ; 

On  tears  for  daintier  dew  : 
Aye  nestling  warm  and  tenderl}', 

Our  leaves  of  love  were  curled, 
So  close  and  close,  about  our  wee 

White  Rose  of  all  the  world. 

With  mystical  faint  fragrance 
Our  house  of  life  she  filled — 

Revealed  each  hour  some  fairy  tower 
Where  Avinged  hopes  might  build ! 

We  saw — though  none  like  us  might  see- 
Such  precious  promise  pearled 

Upon  the  petals  of  our  wee 
White  Rose  of  all  the  woi-ld. 
5Gi 


But,  evermore  the  halo 

Of  Angel-light  increased, 
Like  the  mystery  of  moonlight 

That  folds  some  fiiiry  feast. 
Snow-white,  snow-soft,  snow-silently 

Our  darling  ])ud  up-curled. 
And  dropt  i'  the  grave — God's  lap — our  wee 

White  l\ose  of  all  the  world. 
5G5 


THAT  MERRY,  MERRY  MAY. 

Our  Rose  was  but  in  blossom  ; 

Our  life  was  but  in  spring  ; 
When  down   the  solemn  midnioht 

We  heard  the  Spirits  sing — 
"  Another  bud  of  infancy 

With  holy  dews  impearled  !" 
And  in  their  hands  they  bore  our  wee 

White  Rose  of  all  the  world. 

You  scarce  could  think  so  small  a  thing 

Could  leave  a  loss  so  large  ; 
Her  little  light  such  shadow  fling 

From  dawn  to  sunset's  marge. 
In  other  springs  our  life  may  be 

In  bannered  bloom  unfurled, 
But  never,  never  match  our  wee 

White  Rose  of  all  the  world. 


THAT  MERRY,  MERRY  MAY. 

An !    'tis  like  a  tale  of  olden 

Time,  long,  long  ago ; 
When  the  world  was  in  its  golden 

Prime,  and  Love  was  lord  beloAv  ! 
Every  vein  of  Earth  was  dancing 

With  the  Spring's  new  wine  ! 
'Twas  the  pleasant  time  of  floAvers, 

When  I  met  you,  love  of  mine  ! 
Ah  !    some  spirit  sure  was  straying 

Out  of  heaven  that  day. 
When  I  met  you.  Sweet !    a-Maying 

In  that  merry,  merry  INIay ! 
566 


-I'.:'    (y    -:s    ^^^>.^i^ 


'W^^m^y^^,:.- '' 


Little  heart !    it  shyly  opcn'd 
Its  red  leaves'  love-lore, 

Like  a  rose  tliat  must  be  ripen'd 
To  the  dainty,  dainty  core. 

l>ut  its  l)oauties  daily  brighten, 
And  it   blooms  so  dear, — 


BABE  CHRISTABEL. 

Tho'  a  many  Winters  whiten, 
I  go  Maying  all  the  year. 

And  my  proud  heart  will  be  praying 
Blessings  on  the  day, 

When  I  met  you,  Sweet,  a-Maying, 
In  that  merry,  merry  May. 


BABE  CHRISTABEL. 

In  this  dim  world  of  clouding  cares, 
We  rarely  know,  till  Avildered  eyes 
See  white  wings  lessening  up  the  skies. 

The  Angels  with  us  unawares. 

And  thou  hast  stolen  a  jewel.  Death ! 

Shall  light  thy  dark  up  like  a  Star, 

A  Beacon  kindling  from  afar 
Our  light  of  love,  and  fainting  faith. 

Thro'   tears  it  gleams  perpetually. 

And  glitters  thro'  the  thickest  glooms. 
Till  the  eternal  morning  comes 

To  light  us  o'er  the  Jasper  Sea. 

With  our  best  branch  in  tenderest  leaf, 

We've  strewn  the  way  our  Lord  doth  come ; 
And,  ready  for  the  harvest-home, 

His  Reapers  bind  our  ripest  sheaf. 

Our  beautiful  Bird  of  light  hath  fled: 
Awhile  she  sat  with  folded  wings — 
Sang  round  us  a  few  hoverings — 

Then  straightway  into  glory  sped. 
568 


MASSEY. 

And  white-winged  Angels  nurture  her ; 

With  heaven's  white  radiance  robed  and  crown' d, 
And  all  Love's  purple  glory  round, 

She  summers  on  the  Hills  of  Myrrh. 

Thro'  Childhood's  morning-land  serene 
She  walkt  betwixt  us  twain,  like  Love ; 
Wliile,  in  a  robe  of  light  above, 
^  Her  better  Angel  walkt  unseen, 

Till   Life's  highway  broke  bleak  and  wild ; 
Then,  lest  her  starry  garments  trail 
In  mire,  heart  bleed,  and  courage  fail. 

The  Angel's  arms  caught  up  the  child. 

Her  wave  of  life  hath  backwai'd  roll'd 
To  the  gi-eat  ocean,  on  whose  shore 
We  wander  up  and  down,  to  store 

Some  treasures  of  the  times  of  old : 

And  aye  we  seek  and  hunger  on 
For  precious  pearls  and  relics  rare, 
Strewn  on  the  sands  for  us  to  wear 

At  heart,  for  love  of  her  that's  gone. 

O  weep  no  more !    tliere  yet  is  balm 
In  Gilcad !     Love  doth  ever  shed 
Rich  iio;ding  where  it  nestles, — spread 

O'er  desert  pillows  some  green  palm ! 

God's  ichor  fills  the  hearts  that  bleed; 

The  best   fruit   loads  the  broken  bough  ; 

And  in  the  wounds  our  sufferings  plough, 
Immortal  Love  sows  sovereign  seed. 


569 


ALLINGHAM. 


AUTUMNAL  SONNET. 


Now  Autumn's  fire  burns  slowly  along  the  woods, 
And  day  by  day  the  dead  leaves  fall  and  melt, 

And  night  by  night  the  monitory  blast 

Wails  in  the  key-hole,  telling  how  it  pass'd 
O'er  empty  fields,  or  upland  solitudes, 

Or  grim  wide  wave ;    and  now  the  power  is  felt 
Of  melancholy,  tenderer  in  its  moods 

Than  any  joy  indulgent  summer  dealt. 
Dear  friends,  together  in  the  glimmering  eve, 

Pensive  and  glad,  with  tones  that  recognise 

The  soft  invisible  dew  on  each  one's  eyes, 
It  may  be,  somewhat  thus  we  shall  have  leave 

To  walk  with  memory,  Avhen   distant  lies 
Poor  Earth,  where  we  were  wont  to  live  and  gi'ievc. 

570 


MACKAY. 

YOUTH   AND   SORROW. 

"  Get  thee  back,  Sorrow,  get  thee  back ! 
My  brow  is  smooth,  mine  eyes  are  bright, 
My  limbs  are  full  of  health  and  strength, 
My  cheeks  are  fresh,  my  heart  is  light. 
So,  get  thee  back !    oh,  get  thee  back ! 
Consort  with  age,  but  not  with  me  ; 
Why  shouldst  thou  follow  on  my  track? 
I  am  too  young   to  li\e  Avith  thee." 

"O  foolish  Youth,  to  scorn  thy  friend! 
To  harm  thee  Avherefore  should  I  seek  ? 
I  would  not  dim  thy  sparkling  eyes, 
Nor  blight  the  roses  on  thy  cheek. 
I  would  but  teach  thee  to  be  true ; 
And  should  I  press  thee  overmuch, 
Ever  the  flowers  that  I  bedew 
Yield  sweetest  fragrance  to  the  touch." 

"Get  thee  back.  Sorrow,  get  thee  back! 
I  like  thee  not ;    thy  looks  are  chill. 
The  sunshine  lies  upon  my  heart. 
Thou  showest  me  the  shadow  still. 
So,  get  thee  back!    oh,  get  thcc  back! 
Nor  touch  my  golden  locks  with  grey ; 
Whv  shouldst  thou   ibllow  on   niv   track  ? 
Let  me  be  happy  whiK;  I  may." 

"Good   fi-icnd,  thou  nccdest  sage  advice; 
I'll  keep  thy  heart  from  growing  proud, 
ni  fill  thy  mind  with  kindly  thoughts. 
And  link  thy  pity  to  the  crowd. 

r)71 


YOUTH  AND  SORROW. 

Wouklst  have  a  heart  of  pulseless  stone? 
Wouldst  be  too  happy  to  be  good  ? 
Nor  make  a  human  woe  thine  own, 
For  sake  of  human  brotherhood'?" 

"  Get  thee   back,  Sorrow,  get  thee  back ! 
Wliy  should  I  weep  while  I  am  young? — 
I  have  not  piped — I  have  not  danced — 
My  morning  songs  I  have  not  sung: 
The  world  is  beautiful  to  me, 
Why  tarnish  it  to  soul  and  sense? 
Prithee  begone !     I'll  think  of  thee 
Some  half  a  hundred  winters  hence." 

"  0  foolish  Youth,  thou  know'st  me  not ; 
I  am  the  mistress  of  the  earth — 
'Tis  /  give  tenderness  to  love ; 
Enhance  the  privilege   of  mirth ;    • 
Refine  the  human  gold  from  dross ; 
And  teach  thee,  wormling  of  the  sod. 
To  look  beyond  thy  present  loss 
To  thy  eternal  gain  with  God." 

"  Get  thee  back,  Sorrow,  get  thee  back ! 

I'll  learn  thy  lessons  soon  enough ; 

If  virtuous  pleasure  smooth  my  way, 

Why  shouldst  thou  seek  to  make  it  rough? 

No  fruit  can  ripen  in  the  dark. 

No  bud  can  bloom  in  constant  cold — 

So,  prithee.  Sorrow,  miss  thy  mark, 

Or  strike  me  not  till  I  am  old." 

"  I  am  thy  friend,  thy  best  of  friends ; 
No  bud  in  constant  heats  can  blow — 
The  green  fruit  withers  in  the  drought, 
But  ripens  where  tlie  waters  flow. 

572 


The  sorrows  of  thy  youthful  day 
Shall  make  thee  wise  in  coming  years ; 
The  brightest  rainbows  ever  play 
Above  the  fountains  of  our  tears." 


Youth  frowned,  but  Sorrow  gently  smiled ; 
Upon  his  heart  her  hand  she  laid, 
And  all    its  liidden   sympatliies 
Throl)bed   to   tlie   fingers  of  the  Maid. 
And  when  his  head  grew  grey  with  Time, 
He  owned  that  Sorrow  spoke  the  truth. 
And  that  the  harvest  of  Ins  prime 
Was  ripened  by  the  rains  of  Youth. 

573 


FRANCES  BROWN. 
THE  HOf'E  OF  THE  RESURRECTION. 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  REMARK  OF  AN  AFRICAN  CHIEF  TO  A  MISSIONARY. 

TiiY  voice  hath  filled  our  forest  shades, 

Child  of  the  sunless  shore ! 
For  never  heard  the  ancient  glades 

Such  wondrous  words  before. 
Though  bards  our  land  of  palms  have  filled 

With  tales  of  joy  or  dread, — 
Yet  thou  alone  our  souls  hast  thrilled 

With  tidings  of  her  dead. 

The  men  of  old,  Avho  slept  in  death 

Before  the  forests  grew, 
AVhose  glory  faded  here  beneath, 

While  yet  the  hills  were  new, — 
The  warriors  famed  in  battles  o'er, 

Of  whom  our  fathers  spake, — 
The  wise,  whose  wisdom  shines  no  more, — 

Stranger,  will  they  awake? 

The  foes  who  fell  in  thousand  fights, 

Beneath  my  conquering  brand, — 
Whose  bones  have  strewn  the  Gaffer's  heiirlits. 

The  Bushman's  lonely  land, — 

57-i 


The  young-,  who  shuroil  my   wan-iur-way, 
But  found  an  early  urn, — 

And  tlie  roses  of  my  youth's  bright  day- 
Stranger,  will  they  return  ? 


My  mother's  face  was  fair  to  see — 

My  father's  glance  Avas  bright, — 
But  long  ago  the  grave  from  me 

Hath  hid  their  blessed  light; 
Still  sweeter  was  the  sunshine  shed 

By  my  lost   children's  eyes, 
That  beam   upon   me   from   the   dead,- 

Stranger,  will   they  arise? 
575 


ALL  THINGS  NEW. 

Was  it  some  green  grave's  early  guest, 

Who  loved  thee  long  and  well, 
That  left  the  land  of  dreamless  rest, 

Such  blessed  truths  to  tell? 
For  we  have  had  our  wise  ones,  too, 

Who  feared  not  death's  abyss, — 
The  strong  in  hope,  in  love  the  true, — 

But  none  that  dreamed  of  this ! 

Yet,  if  the  grave  restore  to  life 

Her  ransomed  spoils  again, 
And  ever  hide  the  hate  and  strife 

That  died  with  wayward  men ; — 
How  hath  my  spirit  missed  the  star 

That  guides  our  steps  above ; — 
Since  only  earth  was  given  to  wai-, — 

That  better  land  to  love ! 


ALL  THINGS  NEW. 

■  And  He  that  sat  upon  the  Throne  said,  Behold,  I  make  all  things  new. 

New  Heavens !    for  the  stars  grow  pale 

With  the  midnight  scenes  of  time  ! 
And  the  sun  is  weary  of  the  wail 

That  meets  him  in  every  clime : — 
And  the  sky  grows  dim  with  the  mist  of  tears — 
Bring  back  the  blue  of  its  first,  bright  years! 

57G 


FRANCES  BROWN. 

New  Earth !    for  the  land  and  waves 

With  a  weight  of  evil  groan ; 
And  its  dwellings  stand  in  a  sod  of  graves, 

Which  fearful  things  have  known  : 
From  the  touch  of  fire,  from  the  battle-stain. 
Gives  us  its  Eden  green  again ! 

New  Law !    for  'tis  the  arm  of  Avronsr, 

And  great  hath  been  the  cry 
When  oppressors'  hands  in  their  might  grew  strong, 

And  their  deeds  have  pierced  the  sky : — 
But  the  powers  are  shaken ; — oh  !    requite 
With  the  free,  unchanging  law  of  right. 

New  Faith !    for  a  voice  of  blood 

Hath  been  heard  from  every  shrine. 
And  the  world  hath  worshipped  many  a  God 

With  rites   it  deemed  divine : — 
But  the  creeds  grow  old,  and  the  fanes  decay : — 
Show  us,  at  last,  some  better  way ! 

New  Hope !    for  it  rose  among 

•The  thorns  of  a  barren  spot, 
Where  the  bloom  is  brief  and  the  labour  long, 

And  the  harvest  cometh  not : — 
And  hearts  grow  weary  that  watch  and  wait — 
Give  them  a  rainbow  that  fears  not  fate ! 

New  Love !    for  it  hath  been  cast 

On  the  troubled  waters,  long, 
And  hoped  in  visions  vain   that  passed 

Away,  like  a  night-bird's  song : — 
It  may  not  be  severed  from  the  lost, — 
But  give  us  the  young  Avorld's  love  uncross'd  I 

New  Life !    give  the  summers  back 
AVhose  glory  passed  in  vain, — 

577  ()  o 


ALL  THINGS  NEW. 

Redeem  our  days  from  the  shadow  black 

Of  clouds  without  the  rain, 
And  the  wastes  which  bitter  waters  wore — 
And  our  canker-eaten  years  restore ! 

New  Light !    for  the  lamps  decay 

Which  shone  on  the  old  world's  youth. 

And  the  wise  man  watches  for  a  ray 
Of  the  undiscovered  Truth  :  — 

Long  hath  he  looked  through  the  midnight  dim,- 

Let  the  glorious  Day-Spring  visit  him ! 

Must  the  Earth's  last  hope  like  a  shadow  flee  ? 

Was  the  dream  of  ages  vain? 
Oh!    when  will  the  bright  restoring  be, 

And  the  glory  come  again 
Of  our  promised  spring,  with  its  blessed  dew — 
And  His  Word,  that  maketh  all  things  new! 


PARSONS. 


SORRENTO. 

Midway  betwixt  the  present  and  the  past — 
Naples  and  Psestum — look  !    Sorrento  lies  : 

Ulysses  built  it,  and  the  Sirens  cast 

Their  spell  upon  the  shore,  the  sea,  the  skies 

If  thou  hast  dreamed,  in  any  dream  of  thine. 
How  Paradise  appears,  or  those  Elysian 

Immortal  meadows  Avhich  the  gods  assign 
Unto  the  pure  of  heart — behold  thy  vision ! 

These  waters,  they  are  blue  beyond  belief. 

Nor  hath  green  England  greener  fields  than  these ; 

The  sun — 'tis  Italy's  ;    here  mnter's  brief 
And  gentle  visit  hardly  chills  the  breeze. 

Here  Tasso  dwelt,  and  here  inhaled  with  spring 
The  breath  of  passion  and  the  soul  of  song. 

Here  young  Boccacio  plumed  his  early  wing, 
Thenceforth  to  soar  above  the  vulgar  throng. 

All  charms  of  contrast — every  nameless  grace 
That  lives   in   outline,  harmony,  or  hue — 

So  heighli'ii  all   the  romance  of  the  place. 
That  the  rapt  artist  maddens  at  the  view, 

And  then  despairs,  and  throws  his  pencil  by. 
And  sits  all  day  and  looks  upon  the  shore 

And  the  calm  ocean  Avith  a  languid  eye, 
As  though  to  labour  were  a  law  no  more. 

57!) 


SORRENTO. 

A'oluptuous  coast!    no  wonder  that  the  proud 

Imperial  Roman  found  m  yonder  isle 
Some  sunshine  still  to  gild  Fate's  gathering  cloud, 

And  lull  the  storm  of  conscience  for  a  while. 

What  new  Tiberius,  tired  of  lust  and  life, 

May  rest  him  here  to  give  the  world  a  truce, — 

A  little  truce  from  perjury  and  strife, 
Justice  adulterate  and  power's  misuse? 

Might  the  gross  Bourbon — he  that  sleeps  in  spite 

Of  red  Vesuvius  ever  in  his  eye. 
Yet,  if  he  wake,  should  tremble  at  its  light 

As  'twere  Heaven's  vengeance,  promised  from  on  high,- 

Or  that  poor  gamester,  of  so  cunning  play. 
Who,  up  at  last,  in  Fortune's  fickle  dance. 

Aping  the  mighty  in  so  mean  a  way. 

Makes  now  his  dice  the  destinies  of  France, — 


""J 


Might  they,  or  any  of  Oppression's  band, 
Sit  here  and  learn  the  lesson  of  the  scene, 

Peace  might  return  to  many  a  bleeding  land, 
And  men  grow  just  again,  and  life  serene. 


680 


PAKSONS. 


SAINT   PERAY. 

When  to  any  saint  I  pray, 
It  shall  be  to  Saint  Peray. 
He  alone,  of  all  the  brood. 
Ever  did  me  any  good : 
Many  I  have  tried  that  are 
Humbugs  in  the  calendar. 

On  the  Atlantic  faint  and  sick. 
Once  I  prayed  Saint  Doniinick: 
He  was  holy,  sure,  and  vs^ise ; — 
Was't  not  he  who  did  devise 
Auto  da  Fes  and  rosaries? 
But  for  one  in  my  condition 
This  good  sauit  was  no  physician. 

Next  in  pleasant  Normandie, 
I  made  a  prayer  to  Saint  Denis, 
In  the  great  cathedral,  Avhere 

All  the  ancient  kings  repose ; 
But,  how  I  was  swindled  there 

At  the  "  Golden  Fleece," — he  knows  ! 

In  my  wanderings,  vague  and  various. 
Reaching  Naples — as  I  lay 
Watching  Vesuvius  from  the  bav, 

I  besought  Saint  Januarius. 

But  I  was  a  fool  to  try  him ; 

Naught  I  said  could  liquefy  him ; 

And  I  swear  he  did  me  Avrong, 

Keeping  me  shut  up  so  long 
581 


SAINT  PERAY. 

In  that  pest-house,  with  obscene 

Jews  and  Greeks  and  things  unclean — 

What  need  had  I  of  quarantine"? 

In  Sicily  at  least  a  score, — 
In  Spain  about  as  many  more, — 
And  in  Kome  almost  as  many 
As  the  loves  of  Don  Giovanni, 
Did  I  pray  to — sans  reply  ; 
Devil  take  the  tribe ! — said  I. 

Worn  with  travel,  tired  and  lame, 
To  Assisi's  walls  I  came : 
Sad  and  full  of  homesick  fancies, 
I  addressed  me  to  Saint  Francis ; 
But  the  beggar  never  did 
Anything  as  he  was  bid, 
Never  gave  me  aught  but  fleas, — 
Plenty  had  I  at  Assise. 

But  in  Provence,  near  Vaucluse, 

Hard  by  the  Rhone,  I  'found  a  Saint 
Gifted  with  a  wondrous  juice 

Potent  for  the  worst  complaint. 
'Twas  at  Avignon  that  first — 
In  the  witching  time  of  thirst — 
To  my  brain  the  knowledge  came 
Of  this  blessed  Catholic's  name ; 
Forty  miles  of  dust  that  day 
Made  me  welcome  Saint  Peray. 

Though  till  then  I  had  not  heard 


'to 


Aught  about  him,  ere  a  third 
Of  a  litre  passed  my  lips, 
All  saints  else  were  in  eclipse. 
For  his  gentle  spirit  glided 
With  such  magic  into  mine, 
582 


PAKSONS. 

That  methought  such  blis?  as  I  did 

Poet  never  drew  from  wine. 
Rest  he  gave  me  and  refection, — 
Chastened  hopes,  cahn  retrospection, — 
Softened  images  of  sorrow, 
Bright  forebodings  for  the  morrow, — 
Cliarity  for  what  is  past, — 
Faith  in  something  good  at  last. 

Now,  why  should  any  almanack 

The  name  of  this  good  creature  lack? 

Wherefore  should  the  breviary 

Omit  a  saint  so  sage  and  merry? 

The  Pope  himself  should  grant  a  da\ 

Especially  to  Saint  Peray. 

But,  since  no  day  hath  been  appointed, 

On  purpose,  by  the  Lord's  anointed. 

Let  us  not  wait — we'll  do  him  right ; 

Send  round  your  bottles,  Hal — and  set  your  night. 


583 


J.  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


THE    SINGING    LEAVES. 


A  BALLAD. 


"What  fairings  will  ye  that  I  bring?" 
Said  the  king  to  his  daughters  three  ; 

"For  I  to  Vanity  Fair  am  bound, 
Now  say  what  shall  they  be  ?" 


Then  up  and   spake  the  eldest  daughter, 

The  lady  tall  and  grand, 
"Ye  shall  bring  to  me  the  diamonds  great, 

And  gold  rings  for  my  hand." 


584 


J.  BUS  SELL  LOWELL. 

Thereafter  spake  the  second  daughter, 

That  was  both  white  and  red, 
"For  me  bring  silk  that  will  stand  alone 

And  a  gold  comb  for  my  head." 

Then  lowly  spake  the  least  daughter, 
That  was  whiter  than  thistle-doun, 

And  among  the  gold  of  her  blithesome  hair 
Dim  shone  the  golden  crown. 

"  There  came  a  bird  at  sunrise 
And  sang  'neath  my  bower-eaves. 

And  sent  the  SAveet  dream  that  bade  me 
To  ask  for  the  Singing  Leaves." 

The  vein  of  his  forehead  reddened 

In  a  ridge  of  angry  scorn, 
"Well  have  ye  spoken,  my  two  eldest, 

And  chosen  as  ye  were  born. 

"  But  thou,  like  a  thing  of  peasant  blood. 
That  is  happy  binding  the  sheaves  !" — 

Then  he  saw  her  dead  mother  in  her  face, 
And  said,  "Thou  shalt  have  thy  Leaves." 


II. 


He  bade  farewell  to  the  elder  twain. 
And  touched  his  lips  to  their  cheek. 

But  'twas  thrice  he  kiss'd  the  Princess  Anne, 
And  looked  back  and  did  not  speak. 

And  he  has  ridden  three  days  and  night?. 

Till  he  came  to  Vanity  Fair ; 
And  easy  it  Avas  to  buy  gems  and  gold, 

But  no  Singing  Leaves  were  there. 

585 


THE  SINGING  LEAVES. 

Then  deep  in  the  greenwood  rode  he, 

And  asked  of  every  tree  : 
'•  Oh,  if  ye  have  ever  a  singing  leaf, 

I  pray  you  to  give  it  me!" 

But  the  trees  all  kept  their  counsel ; 

They  said  neither  yea  or  nay  ; 
Only  there  sighed  from  the  pine-tops 

A  music  of  seas  far  away. 

Only  the  aspen  pattered 

"With  a  sound  like  growing  rain, 
That  fell  ever  fast  and  faster, 

Then  faltered  to  silence  again. 


"Oh,  where  shall  I  find  a  little  foot-page. 
That  would  win  both  hose  and  shoon. 

And  will  bring  to  me  these  Singing  Leaves, 
If  they  grow  'neath  sun  or  moon  ?" 

Then  lightly  turned  him  Walter,  the  page, 

By  the  stirrup  as  he  ran, 
"  Now  pledge  to  me  the  truesome  word 

Of  a  knight  and  gentleman, 

"That  you  will  give  me  the  first,  first  thing 

You  meet  at  your  castle-gate ; 
And  the  princess  shall  get  the  Singing  Leaves, 

Or  mine  be  the  traitor's  fate !" 

The  king's  head  dropped  on  his  bosom 

A  moment,  as  it  might  be — 
'Twill  be  my  hound,  he  thought,  and  he  said, 

"I  pledge  my  Avord  to  thee." 

Then  Walter  took  from  next  his  heart 

A  packet  small  and  thin  ; 
"  And  give  you  this  to  the  Princess  Anno — 

The  Singing  Leaves  are  therein." 

■586 


J.  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


III. 


As  the  king  rode  in,  o'er  the  loud  draw-bridge 

A  maiden  to  meet  him  ran ; 
And,  "  Welcome,  father !"  she  laughed  and  cried 


Together,  the  Princess  Anne. 


"  Lo,  here  thy  Singing  Leaves,"  quoth  he ; 

"  And  wo,  but  they  cost  me  dear !" 
She  took  the  packet,  and  her  smile 

Deepened  down  beneath  the  tear. 

It  deepened  down  to  her  very  heart, 

And  then  flushed  back  again, 
And  lighted  her  tears  as  the  sudden  sun 

Transfisfures  the  summer  rain. 

And  the  first  leaf,  when  she  opened  it. 

Sang,  "I  am  Walter,  the  page. 
And  the  songs  I  sing  'neath  thy  window 

Are  all  my  heritage !" 

And  the  second  leaf  sang,  "But  in  the  land 

That  is  neither  on  earth  or  sea, 
My  harp  and  I  are  lords  of  more 

Than  thrice  this  kingdom's  fee !" 

And  the  third  leaf  sang,  "  Be  mine !  be  mine !" 

And  still  it  sang,  "Be  mine!" 
Then  sweeter  it  sang  and  ever  sweeter, 

And  said,  "I  am  thine,  ihinc,  thine!" 

At  the  first  leaf  she  grew  pale  enough, 

At  the  second  she  turned  aside. 
At   till'  third,  'twas  as  if  a  lily  flushed 

AVitli  a  rose's  red  lieart's  tide. 

587  . 


LONGING. 

"  Good  counsel  gave  the  bird,"  she  said  ; 

*■'  I  have  my  wish  thrice  o'er ; 
For  they  sing  to  my  very  heart,"  she  said, 

"And  it  sings  with  them  evermore." 


LONGING. 

Of  all  the  myriad  moods  of  mind 

That  through  the  soul  come  thronging, 
Which  one  was  e'er  so  dear,  so  kind. 

So  beautiful,  as  Longing? 
The  thing  we  long  tor,  that  we  are 

For  one  transcendent  moment, 
l^efore  the  Present  poor  and  bare 

Can  make  its  sneering  comment. 

Still,  through  our  paltry  stir  and  strife. 

Glows  down  the  wished  Ideal, 
And  Longing  moulds  in  clay  what  Life 

Carves  in  the  marble  Real ; 
To  let  the  new  life  in,  we  know. 

Desire  must  ope  the  portal ; — 
Perhaps  the  longing  to  be  so 

Helps  make  the  soul  immortal. 

Longing  is  God's  fresh  heavenward  will, 
With  our  poor  earthward  striving ; 

W^e  quench  it  that  we  may  be  still 
Content  with  merely  living ; 


J.  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

But  would  we  learn  that  heart's  full  scope 
Which  we  are  hourly  wronging, 

Our  lives  must  climb  from  hope  to  hope, 
And  realize  our  longing. 

Ah  !    let  us  hope  that  to  our  praise 

Good  God  not  only  reckons 
The  moments  when  we  tread  his  ways, 

But  when  the  spirit  beckons, — 
That  some  slight  good  is  also  wrought 

Beyond  self-satisfaction, 
When  we  are  simply  good  in  thought, 

Howe'er  Ave  fail  in  action. 


AUF  WIEDERSEIIEN! 


SUMMER. 

The  little  gate  Avas  reached  at  last, 
Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane  ; 
She  ])nslied  it  wide,  and  as  she  passed 
A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 
And  said, — "  Auf  Wiedersehen  .'" 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 
Lingered,  reluctant,  and  again 

Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright ; 

Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night. 
She  said, — "  Auf  Wiedersehen  .'" 
58y 


PALINODE. 

The  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair ; 

I  linger  in  delicious  pain  ; 
Ah  !    in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  ah- 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  scarcely  dare, 

Thinks  she, — '•'' Auf  Wiedersehen  C 

'Tis  thirteen  years  ;    once  more  I  press 
The  turf  that  silences  the  lane  ; 

I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 

I  smell  the  lilacs,  and — ah,  yes, 
I  hear  '■'■Auf  Wiedersehen /" 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art ! 

The  English  words  had  seemed  too  fain ; 
But  these — they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart, — 

She  said, — '•'■Auf  Wiedersehen T 


PALINODE. 
II. 

AUTUMN. 

Still  thirteen  years :    'tis  autumn  now, 

On  field  and  hill,  in  heart  and  brain  ; 
The  naked  trees  at  evening  sough, 
The  leaf  to  the  forsaken  bough 
Sighs  not, — "  We  meet  again  !" 
590 


J.  EUSSELL  LOWELL. 

Two  watched  yon  oriole's  pendent  dome 
That  now  is  void,  and  dank  with  rain, 

And  one — O,  hope  more  frail  than  foam  ! 

The  bird  to  his  deserted  home 
Sings  not, — "  We  meet  again  !" 

The  loath  gate  swings  with  rusty  creak  ; 

Once,  parting  there,  we  played  at  pain  ; 
There  came  a  parting,  when  the  weak 
And  fading  lips  essayed  to  speak 

Vainly, — "  We  meet  again  !" 

Somewhere  is  comfort,  somewhere  faith. 

Though  thou  in  outer  dark  remain  ; 
One  sweet,  sad  voice  ennobles  death, 
And  still,  for  eighteen  centuries  saith 
Softly, — '-Ye  meet  again!" 

If  earth  another  grave  must  bear, 

Yet  heaven  hath  won  a  sweeter  strain, 
And  something  whispers  to  despair. 
That,  from  an  orient  chamber  there, 
Floats  down,  "  We  meet  again  !' 


591 


MAKIA  LOWELL. 
THE   ALPINE    SHEEP. 

ADDRESSED  TO  A  FRIEND  AFTER  THE  LOSS  OF  A  CHILD. 

When  on  my  ear  your  loss  was  knelled, 

And  tender  sympathy  upburst, 
A  little  spring  from  memory  welled, 

Which  once  had  quenched  my  bitter  thirst, 

And  I  was  fain  to  bear  to.  you 

A  portion  of  its  mild  relief, 
That  it  might  be  as  healing  dew, 

To  steal  some  fever  from  your  grief. 

After  our  child's  untroubled  breath 

Up  to  the  Father  took  its  way, 
And  on  our  home  the  shade  of  Death, 

Like  a  long  twilight  haunting  lay, 

And  friends  came  round,  with  us  to  weep 

Her  little  spirit's  swift  remove. 
The  stoi-y  of  the  Alpine  sheep 

Was  told  to  us  by  one  we  love. 

They,  in  the  valley's  sheltering  care. 
Soon  crop  the  meadows'  tender  prime, 

And  when  the  sod  grows  brown  and  bare, 
The  Shepherd  strives  to  make  them  climb 

To  airy  shelves  of  pasture  green, 

That  hang  along  the  mountain's  side. 

Where  grass  and  flowers  together  lean. 

And  down  through  mist  the  sunbeams  slide. 

.592 


MARIA  LOWELL. 

But  nought  can  tempt  tlie  timid  things 
The  steep  and  rugged  path  to  try, 

Though  sweet  the  shepherd  calls  and  sings, 
And  seared  below  the  pastures  lie, 

Till  in  his  arms  his  lambs  he  takes, 

Along  the  dizzy  verge  to  go, 
Then,  heedless  of  the  rifts  and  breaks. 

They  follow  on  o'er  rock  and  snow. 

And  in  those   pastures,  lifted  fair, 
More  dewy-soft  than  lowland  mead. 

The  shepherd  drops  his  tender  care, 
And  sheep  and  lambs  together  feed. 

This  parable,  by  Nature  breatlied. 
Blew  on  me  as  the   south-wind  free 

O'er  frozen  brooks,  that  flow  unsheathed 
From  icy  thraldom  to  the  sea. 

A  blissful  \-ision,  through  the  night 
Would  all  my  happy  senses  sway 

Of  the  Good  Shepherd  on,  the  height, 
Or  climbing  up  the  starry  way. 

Holding  our  little  lamb  asleep, 

AVliile,  like  the  murmur  of  the  sea. 

Sounded  that  voice  along  the  deep, 
Saying,   "  Arise  and  follow  me  !" 


503 


EEAD. 


THE  WAYSIDE  SPRING. 


Fair  dweller  by  the  dusty  way — 
Bright  saint  within  a  mossy  shrine, 

The  tribute  of  a  heart  to-day 
Weary  and  worn  is  thine. 
594 


READ. 

The  earliest  blossoms  of  the  year, 
The  sweet-brier  and  the  violet 

The  pious  hand  of  Spring  has  here 
Upon  thy  altar  set. 

And  not  alone  to  thee  is  given 

The  homage  of  the  pilgrim's  knee — 

But  oft  the  sweetest  birds  of  Heaven 
Glide  down  and  sing  to  thee. 


"to 


Here  daily  from  his  beechen  cell 
The  hermit  squin'el  steals  to  drink, 

And  flocks  which  cluster  to  their  bell 
Recline  along  thy  brink. 

And  here  the  waggoner  blocks  his  wheels^ 
To  quaff  the  cool  and  generous  boon ; 

Here,  from  the  sultry  harvest  fields 
The  reapei'S  rest  at  noon. 

And  oft  the  beggar  marked  TV'ith  tan, 
In  rusty  garments  grey  with  dust, 

Here  sits  and  dips  his  little  can, 
And  breaks  his  scanty  crust ; 

And,  lulled  beside  thy  whispering  stream. 
Oft  drops  to  slumber  unawares, 

And  sees  the  angel  of  his  dream 
Upon  celestial  stairs. 

Dear  dweller  by  llie  dusty  way. 
Thou  saint   within  a  mossy  shrine, 

The  tribute  of  a  heart  to-day 
Weary  and  worn   i>  thine  ! 


595 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 


THE  CLOSING   SCENE. 


Within  this  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees, 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air, 

Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  of  ease. 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and  bare. 

The  gray  barns,  looking  from  their  liazy  hills 

O'er  the  dim  waters  widening  in  the  vales,  • 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills, 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed,  and  all  sounds  subdued  ^ 
The  hills  seemed  farther,  and  the  streams  sang  low ; 

As  in  a  dream,  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a  muffled  blow. 

Th'  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  in  gold, 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial  hue. 

Now  stood,  like  some  sad  beaten  host  of  old. 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 


On  slumb'rous  wings  the  vulture  held  his  flight ; 

The  dove  scarce  heard  his  sighing  mate's  complaint ; 
And  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in   the  light. 

The  village  church-vane  seemed  to  pale  and  faint. 

The  sentinel  cock  upon  the  hill-side  crew ; 

Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than  before — 
Silent  till  some  replying  wanderer  blew 

His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

59G 


READ. 

Where  erst  the  jay  within  the  elm's  tall  crest 

Made  garrulous  trouble  round  her  unfledged  young ; 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  cetiser  swung ; 

AVTiere  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eves, 

The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near, 
Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes, 

An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous  year; 

Where  every  bird  which  charmed  the  vernal  feast 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at  morn, 

To  warn  the  reapers  of  the  rosy  east, 

All  noAV  Avas  songless,  empty,  and  forlorn. 

Alone,  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the  quail. 

And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the  dreary  gloom ; 

Alone  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale, 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers; 

The  spiders  wove  their  thin  shrouds  night  by  night ; 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers. 

Sailed  slowly  by — passed  noiseless  out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this — in  this  most  cheerless  air. 

And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon  the  porcli 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  year  stood  there. 
Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted  torch — 

Amid  all  this,  the  centre  of  the  scene, 

The  white-haired  matron,  with  monotonous  tread 

Plied  her  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  mien 
Sat  like  a  Fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 

597 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 

She  had  known  sorrow.     He  had  walked  with  her, 
Oft  supped,  and  broke  the  bitter  ashen  crust, 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  summer  bloom, 
Her  country  summoned,  and  she  gave  her  all, 

And  twice  War  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume ; 
Ke-gave  the  swords  to  rust  upon  her  wall. 


Re-gave  the  swords — but  not  the  hand  that  drew. 
And  struck  for  Liberty  the  dying  blow; 

Nor  him,  who  to  his  sire  and  country  true 
Fell  'mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 


Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on, 
Like  the  low  murmurs  of  a  hive  at  noon ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 

Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous  tune. 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped,  her  head  was  bowed: 
Life  dropped  the  distaff  through  his  hands  serene ; 

And  loving  neighbours  smoothed  her  careful  shroud, 
While  Death  and  Winter  closed  the  autumn  scene. 


598 


BUTLER. 


NOTHING  TO  WEAR. 


AN    EPISODE    OF    CITY    LIFE. 


Miss  Flora  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 
Has  made  three  separate  journeys  to  Paris, 

And  her  father  assures  me,  each  time  she  Avas  there, 
That  slie  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Harris, 

59si 


NOTHING  TO  WEAR. 

(Not  the  lady  whose  name  is  so  famous  in  histor}^ 

But  plain  Mrs.  H.,  without  romance  or  mystery,) 

Spent  six  consecutive  weeks  without  stopping, 

In  one  continuous  round  of  shopping ; 

Shopping  alone,  and  shopping  together. 

At  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  in  all  sorts  of  weather  ; 

For  all  manner  of  things  that  a  woman  can  put 

On  the  crown  of  her  head  or  the  sole  of  her  foot, 

Or  wrap  round  her  shoulders,  or  fit  round  her  waist, 

Or  that  can  be  sewed  on,  or  pinned  on,  or  laced. 

Or  tied  on  with  a  string,  or  stitched  on  with  a  bow. 

In  front  or  behind,  above  or  below : 

For  bonnets,  mantillas,  capes,  collars,  and  shawls ; 

Dresses  for  breakfasts,  and  dinners,  and  balls ; 

Dresses  to  sit  in,  and  stand  in,  and  walk  in  ; 

Dresses  to  dance  in,  and  flirt  in,  and  talk  in  ; 

Dresses  in  which  to  do  nothing  at  all ; 

Dresses  for  winter,  spring,  summer,  and  fall ; 

All  of  them  different  in  colour  and  pattern, — 

Silk,  muslin,  and  lace,  crape,  velvet,  and  satin. 

Brocade,  and  broadcloth,  and  other  material. 

Quite  as  expensive  and  much  more  ethereal ; 

In  short,  for  all  things  that  could  ever  be  thought  of, 

Or  milliner,  modiste,  or  tradesman  be  bought  of, 

From  ten-thousand-franc  robes  to  twenty-sous  frills  ; 
In  all  quarters  of  Paris,  and  to  every  store. 
While  M'Flimsey  in  vain  stormed,  scolded,  and  swore, 

They  footed  the  streets,  and  he  footed  the  bills. 


The  last  trip,  their  goods  shipped  by  the  steamer  Arago 
Formed,  M'Flimsey  declares,  the  bulk  of  her  cargo. 
Not  to  mention  a  quantity  kept  from  the  rest, 
Sufficient  to  fill  the  largest-sized  chest, 
Which  did  not  appear  on  the  ship's  manifest, 
But  for  which  the  ladies  themselves  manifested 
Such  particular  interest,  that  they  invested 

600 


BUTLER. 

Their  own  proper  persons  in  layeas  and  rows 
Of  muslins,  embroideries,  worked  under-clothes, 
Gloves,  handkerchiefs,  scarfs,  and  such  trifles  as  those  ; 
Then,  wrapped  in  great  shawls,  like  Circassian  beauties, 
Gave  good-by  to  the  ship,  and  go-by  to  the  duties. 
Her  relations  at  home  all  marvelled  no  doubt, 
Miss  Flora  had  grown  so  enormously  stout 

For  an  actual  belle  and  a  possible  bride  ; 
But  the  miracle  ceased  when  she  turned  inside  out, 

And  the  truth  came  to  light,  and  the  dry  goods  beside, 
Which,  in  spite  of  Collector  and  Custom-house  sentry, 
Had  entered  the  port  without  any  entry. 

And  yet,  though  scarce  three  months  have  passed  since  the  day 
This  merchandise  went,  on  twelve  carts,  up  Broadway, 
This  same  Miss  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 
The  last  time  we  met,  was  in  utter  despair, 
Because  she  had  nothing  whatever  to  Avear! 

Nothing  to  wear!     Now,  as  this  is  a  true  ditty, 
I  do  not  assert — this,  you  know,  is  between  us — 

That  she's  in  a  state  of  absolute  nudity. 

Like  Powers'  Greek  Slave,  or  the  Medici  Venus ; 

But  I  do  mean  to  say,  I  have  heard  her  declare, 
AVhen,  at  the  same  moment,  she  had  on  a  dress 
Which  cost  five  hundred  dollars,  and  not  a  cent  lees, 
And  jewelry  worth  ten  times  more,  I  should  guess, 

That  she  had  not  a  thing  in  the  wide  world  to  wear! 

I  should  mention  just  here,  that  out  of  Miss  Floras 
Two  hundred  and  fifty  or  sixty  adorers, 
I  had  just  been  selected  as  he  who  should  throAv  all 
The  rest  in  the  shade,  by  the  gracious  bestowal 
On  myself,  after  twenty  or  thirty  rejections. 
Of  those  fossil  remains  which  she  called  her  "aifections," 
And  that  rather  decayed,  but  well-known  work  of  art. 
Which   Miss  Flora  persisted  in  styling  "her  heart."" 

GUI 


NOTHING  TO  WEAR. 

So  we  were  engaged.     Our  troth  had  been  plighted, 

Not  by  moonbeam  or  starbeani,  by  fountain  or  grove, 

But  in  a  front  parlour,  most  brilliantly  lighted, 

Beneath  the  gas-fixtures  we  whispered  our  love. 

Without  any  romance,  or  raptures,  or  sighs, 

Without  any  tears  in  Miss  Flora's  blue  eyes, 

Or  blushes,  or  transports,  or  such  silly  actions. 

It  was  one  of  the  quietest  business  transactions. 

With  a  very  small  sprinkling  of  sentiment,  if  any. 

And  a  very  large  diamond  imported  by  Titfany. 

On  her  virginal  lips  while  I  printed  a  kiss. 

She  exclaimed,  as  a  sort  of  parenthesis. 

And  by  way  of  putting  me  quite  at  my  ease, 

"You  know,  I'm  to  polka  as  much  as  I  please. 

And  flirt  when  I  like — now  stop,  don't  you  speak — 

And  you  must  not  come  here  more  than  twice  in  the  week. 

Or  talk  to  me  either  at  party  or  ball, 

But  always  be  ready  to  come  when  I  call ; 

So  don't  prose  to  me  about  duty  and  stuff, 

K  we  don't  break  this  off,  there  will  be  time  enough 

For  that  sort  of  thing  ;    but  the  bargain  must  be 

That,  as  long  as  I  choose,  I  am  perfectly  free, 

For  this  is  a  sort  of  engagement,  you  see. 

Which  is  binding  on  you  but  not  binding  on  me." 

Well,  having  thus  wooed  Miss  M'Flimsey  and  gained  her. 

With  the  silks,  crinolines,  and  hoops  that  contained  her, 

I  had,  as  I  thought,  a  contingent  remainder 

At  least  in  the  property,  and  the  best  right 

To  appear  as  its  escort  by  day  and  by  night  ; 

And  it  being  the  week  of  the  Stuckup's  grand  ball — 

Their  cards  had  been  out  a  fortnight  or  so, 

And  set  all  the  Avenue  on  the  tip-toe — 
I  considered  it  only  my  duty  to  call. 

And  see  if  Miss  Flora  intended  to  go. 
I  found  her — as  ladies  are  apt  to  be  found. 
When   the  time  intervening  between  the  first  sound 

602 


BUTLER. 

Of  the  bell  and  the  visitor's  entry  is  shorter 

Than   usual — I  found  ;    I  won't  say — I  caught  her — 

Intent  on  the  pier-glass,  undoubtedly  meaning 

To  see  if  perhaps  it  didn't  need  cleaning. 

She  turned  as  I  entered — "Why,  Harry,  you  sinner, 

I  thought  that  you  went  to  the  Flashers'  to  dinner!" 

"So  I  did,"  I  replied,  "but  the  dinner  is  swallowed, 

And  digested,  I  trust,  for  'tis  now  nine  and  more. 
So  being  relieved  from  that  duty,  I  followed 

Inclination,  which  led  me,  you  see,  to  your  door. 
And  now  will  your  ladyship  so  condescend 
As  just  to  inform  me  if  you  intend 
Your  beauty,  and  graces,  and  presence  to  lend, 
(All  which,  when  I  own,  I  hope  no  one  will  borrow) 
To  the  Stuckup's,  whose  party,  you  know,  is  to-morrow  ?" 

The  fair  Flora  looked  up  with  a  pitiful  air. 
And  answei-ed  quite  promptly,  "  Why  Harry,  mon  cliei\ 
I  should  like  above  all  things  to  go  with  you  there ; 
But  really  and  truly — I've  nothing  to  wear." 

"  Nothing  to  wear !    go  just  as  you  are ; 

Wear  the  dress  you  have  on,  and  you'll  be  by  far, 

I  engage,  the  most  bright  and  particular  star 

On  the  Stuckup  horizon" — I  stopped,  for  her  eye, 
Notwithstanding  this  delicate  onset  of  flattery, 
Opened  on  me  at  once  a  most  terrible  battery 

Of  scorn  and  amazement.      She  made  no  reply. 
But  gave  a  slight  turn  to  the  end  of  her  nose 

(That  pure  Grecian  feature),  as  much  as  to  say, 
'•  How  absurd  that  any  sane  man  should  suppose 
That  a  lady  Avould  go  to  a  ball  in  the  clothes, 

No  matter  how  fine,  that  she  wears  every  day !" 

So  I  ventured  again — "Wear  your  crimson  brocade," 
(Second  turn  up  of  nose) — "  That's  too  dark  by  a  shade." 

603 


NOTHING  TO  WEAR. 

"Your  blue  silk" — "That's  too  hea\y;"  "Your  pink" — '-That's  too  light," 

"Wear  tulle  over  satin" — "I  can't  endure  Avhite." 

"  Your  rose-coloured,  then,  the  best  of  the  batch" — 

"  I  haven't  a  thread  of  point  lace  to  match." 

"Your  brown  moir  antique''' — "Yes,  and  look  like  a  Quaker;" 

"The  pearl-coloured" — "I  would,  but  that  plaguy  dress-maker 

Has  had  it  a  week" — "  Then  that  exquisite  lilac. 

In  which  you  would  melt  the  heart  of  a  Shylock." 

(Here  the  nose  took  again  the  same  elevation) 

"  I  wouldn't  wear  that  for  the  whole  of  creation." 

"Why  not?     It's  my  fancy,  there's  nothing  could  strike  it 
As  more  comme  il  faut — "     "  Yes,  but  dear  me,  that  lean 

Sophronia  Stuckup  has  got  one  just  like  it. 
And  I  won't  appear  dressed  like  a  chit  of  sixteen." 
"  Then  that  splendid  purple,  that  sweet  Mazarine ; 
That  superb  jwint  (Taiguille,  that  imperial  green, 
That  zephyr-like  tarleton,  that  rich  grenadine''' — 
"Not  one  of  all  which  is  fit  to  be  seen," 
Said  the  lady,  becoming  excited  and  flushed. 
"Then  wear,"  I  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  which  quite  crushed 

Opposition,   "  that  gorgeous  toilette  which  you  sported 
In  Paris  last  spring,  at  the  grand  presentation. 
When  you  quite  turned  the  head  of  the  head  of  the  nation  ; 

And  by  all  the  grand  court  were  so  very  much  courted." 

The  end  of  the  nose  was  portentously  tipped  up. 
And  both  the  bright  eyes  shot  forth  indignation. 
As  she  burst  upon  me  with  the  fierce  exclamation, 
"I  have  worn  it  three  times  at  the  least  calculation, 

And  that  and  the  most  of  my  dresses  are  ripped  up !" 
Here  /  ripped  out  something,  perhaps  rather  rash. 

Quite  innocent,  though  ;    but,  to  use  an  expression 
More  striking  than  classic,  it  "  settled  my  hash," 

And  proved  very  soon  the  last  act  of  our  session. 
"  Fiddlesticks,  is  it.  Sir  %     I  wonder  the  ceiling 
Doesn't  fall  down  and  crush  you — oh,  you  men  have  no  feeling, 
You  selfish,  unnatural,  illiberal  creatures, 
Who  set  yourselves  up  as  patterns  and  preachers. 

604 


BUTLER. 

Your  silly  pretence — why,  what  a  mere  guess  it  is ! 

Pray,  what  do  you  know  of  a  woman's  necessities? 

I  have  told  you  and  shown  you  I've  nothing  to  Avear, 

And  it's  perfectly  plain  you  not  only  don't  care, 

But  you  do  not  believe  me"  (here  the  nose  went  still  hi'dier). 

"  I  suppose  if  you  dared  you  would  caU  me  a  liar. 

Our  engagement  is  ended,  Sir — yes,  on  the  spot ; 

You're  a  brute,  and  a  monster,  and — I  don't  know  what." 

1  mildly  suggested  the  woixls — Hottentot, 

Pickpocket,  and  cannibal,  Tartar,  and  thief. 

As  gentle  expletives  which  might  give  relief; 

But  this  only  proved  as  spark  to  the  powder. 

And  the  storm  I  had  raised  came  faster  and  louder. 

It  blew  and  it  rained,  thundered,  lightened,  and  hailed 

Interjections,  verbs,  pronouns,  till  language  quite  failed 

To  express  the  abusive,  and  then  its  arrears 

AVere  brought  up  all  at  once  by  a  torrent  of  tears, 

And  my  last  faint,  despairing  attempt  at  an  obs- 

Ervation  was  lost  in  a  tempest  of  sobs. 

Well,  I  felt  for  the  lady,  and  felt  for  my  hat,  too, 
Improvised  on  the  crown  of  the  latter  a  tattoo, 
In  lieu  of  expressing  the  feelings  which  lay 
Quite  too  deep  for  words,  as  Wordsworth  would  sa}-; 
Then,  without  going  through  the  form  of  a  bow. 
Found  myself  in  the  entry — I  hardly  knew  how — 
On  door-step  and  sidewalk,  past  lamp-post  and  square, 
At  home  and  up  stairs,  in  my  own  easy  chair ; 

Poked  my  feet  into  slippers,  my  fire  into  blaze. 
And  said  to  myself,  as  I  lit  my  cigar, 
Supposing  a  man  had  the  wealth  of  the  Czar 

Of  the  Russias  to  boot,  for  the  rest  of  his  days, 
On  the  whole,  do  you  think  he  would  have  nuicli    to   spare 
If  he  married  a  woman  with  nothing  to  wear? 

Since  that  night,  taking  pains  that  it  should  not  be  bruited 
Abroad  in  society,  I've  instituted 
A  course  of  inquiry,  extensive  and  thorough, 

G05 


NOTHING  TO  WEAR, 

On  this  vital  subject,  and  find,  to  my  horror, 
.That  the  fair  Flora's  case  is  by  no  means  surprising, 

But  that  there  exists  the  greatest  distress 
In  our  female  community,  solely  arising 

From  this  unsupplied  destitution  of  dress. 
Whose  unfortunate  victims  are  filling  the  air 
With  the  pitiful  wail  of  "Nothing  to  Avear." 
Kesearches  in  some  of  the   "Upper  Ten"  districts 
Eeveal  the  most  painful  and  startling  statistics, 
Of  which  let  me  mention  only  a  few : 
In  one  single  house,  on  the  Fifth  Avenue, 
Three  young  ladies  were  found,  all  below  twenty-two. 
Who  have  been  three  whole  weeks  without  any  thing  new 
In  the  way  of  flounced  silks,  and  thus  left  in  the  lurch 
Are  unable  to  go  to  bail,  concert,  or  church. 
In  another  large  mansion  near  the  same  place 
Was  found  a  deplorable,  heart-rending  case 
Of  entire  destitution  of  Brussels  point  lace. 
In  a  neighbouring  block  there  was  found,  in  three  calls, 
Total  want,  long  continued,  of  camels' -hair  shawls; 
And  a  suflTering  family,  Avhose  case  exhibits 
The  most  pressing  need  of  real  ermine  tippets ; 
One  deserving  young  lady  almost  unable 
To  survive  for  the  want  of  a  new  Russian   sable ; 
Another  confined  to  the  house,  when  it's  windier 
Than  usual,  because  her  shawl  isn't  India. 
Still  another,  whose  tortures  have  been  most  terrific 
Ever  since  the  sad  loss  of  the  steamer  Pacific, 
In  which  were  ingulfed,  not  friend  or  relation, 
(For  whose  fate  she  perhaps  might  have  found  consolation, 
Or  borne  it,  at  least,  with  serene  resignation,) 
But  the  choicest  assortment  of  French  sleeves  and  collars 
Ever  sent  out  from  Paris,  worth  thousands  of  dollars, 
And  all  as  to  style  most  recherche  and  rare. 
The  Avant  of  Avhich  leaves  her  with  nothing  to  Avear, 
And  renders  her  life  so  drear  and  dyspeptic 
That  she's  quite  a  recluse,  and  almost  a  sceptic, 

606 


BUTLER. 

For  she  touchiiigly  says  that  this  sort  of  grief 

Cannot  find  in  Religion  the  slightest  relief, 

And  Philosophy  has  not  a  maxim  to  spare 

For  the  victims  of  such  overwhelming  despair. 

But  the  saddest  by  far  of  all  these  -sad  features 

Is  the  cruelty  practised  upon  the  poor  creatures 

By  husbands  and  fathers,  real  Bluebeards  and  Timons, 

Who  resist  the  most  touching  appeals  made  for  diamonds 

By  their  wives  and  their  daughters,  and  leave  them  for  days 

Unsupplied  with  new  jewelry,  fans,  or  bouquets, 

Even  laugh  at  their  miseries  whenever  they  have  a  chance, 

And  deride  their  demands  as  useless  extravagance ; 

One  case  of  a  bride  was  brought  to  my  view. 

Too  sad  for  belief,  but,  alas!    'twas  too  true. 

Whose  husband  refused,  as  savage  as  Charon, 

To  permit  her  to  take  more  than  ten  trunks  to  Sharon. 

The  consequence  was,  that  when  she  got  there, 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  she  had  nothing  to  Avear, 

And  when  she  proposed  to  finish  the  season 

At  Newport,  the  monster  refused  out  and  out, 

For  his  infamous  conduct  alleging  no  reason. 

Except  that  the  waters  wei-e  good  for  his  gout ; 

Such   treatment  as  this  was  too  shocking,  of  course, 

And  proceedings  are  now  going  on  for  divorce. 

But  why  harrow  the  feelings  by  lifting  the  curtain 
From  these  scenes  of  woe?     Enough,  it  is  certain. 
Has  here  been  disclosed  to  stir  u})  the  pity 
Of  every  benevolent  heart  in  the  city, 
And  spur  up  Humanity  into  a  canter 
To  rush  and  relieve  these  sad  cases  instanter. 
Won't  somebody,  moved  by  this  touching  description, 
Come  forward  to-morrow  and  head  a  subscription? 
Won't  some  kind  philanthropist,  seeing  that  aid  is 
So  needed  at  once  by  these  indigent  ladies, 
Take  charge  of  the  matter  ?    or  won't  Peter  Coopeu 
The  corner-stone  lay  of  some  splendid  supcr- 

607 


NOTHING  TO  WEAR. 

Structure,  like  that  which  to-day  links  his  name 

In  the  Union  unending  of  honour  and  fame ; 

And  found  a  new  charity  just  for  the  care 

Of  these  unhappy  women  with  nothing  to  wear, 

Wliich,  in  view  of  the  cash  which  would  daily  be  claimed, 

The  Laying-out  Hospital  well  might  be  named? 

Won't  Stewart,  or  some  of  our  dry-goods  importers, 

Take  a  contract  for  clothing  our  wives  and  our  daughters? 

Or,  to  furnish  the  cash  to  supply  these  distresses, 

And  life's  pathway  strew  with  shawls,  collars,  and  dresses. 

Ere  the  want  of  them  makes  it  much  rougher  and  thornier, 

Won't  some  one  discover  a  new  California? 

Oh  ladies,  dear  ladies,  the  next  sunny  day 
Please  trundle  your  hoops  just  out  of  Broadway, 
From  its  whirl  and  its  bustle,  its  fashion  and  pride, 
And  the  temples  of  Trade  which  tower  on  each  side. 
To  the  alleys  and  lanes,  where  Misfortune  and  Guilt 
Their  children  have  gathered,  their  city  have  built ; 
Where  Hunger  and  Vice,  like  twin  beasts  of  prey, 

Have  hunted  their  victims  to  gloom  and  despair ; 
Raise  the  rich,  dainty  dress,  and  the  fine  broidered  skirt, 
Pick  your  delicate  way  through  the  dampness  and  dirt. 

Grope  through  the  dark  dens,  climb  the  rickety  stair 
To  the  garret,  where  wretches,  the  young  and  the  old. 
Half-starved  and  half-naked,  lie  crouched  from  the  cold. 
See  those  skeleton  limbs,  those  frost-bitten  feet. 
All  bleeding  and  bruised  by  the  stones  of  the  street ; 
Hear  the  sharp  cry  of  childhood,  the  deep  gi^oans  that  swell 

From  the  poor  dying  creature  who  writhes  on  the  floor, 
Hear  the  curses  that  sound  like  the  echoes  of  Plell, 

As  you  sicken  and  shudder  and  fly  from  the  door; 
Then  home  to  your  wardrobes,  and  say,  if  you  dare — 
Spoiled  children  of  Fashion — you've  nothing  to  wear ! 

And  oh,  if  perchance  there  should  be  a  sphere. 
Where  all  is  made  right  which  so  puzzles  us  here, 

608 


BUTLER.. 

Where  the  glare,  and  the  glitter,  and  tinsel  of  Time 
Fade  and  die  in  the  light  of  that  region  sublime, 
Where  the  soul,  disenchanted  of  flesh  and  of  sense. 
Unscreened  by  its  trappings,  and  shows,  and  pretence, 
Must  be  clothed  for  the  life  and  the  service  above, 
With  purity,  truth,  faith,  meekness,  and  love ; 
Oh,  daughters  of  Earth !    foolish  virgins,  beware ! 
Lest  in  that  upper  realm  you  have  nothing  to  wear! 


if 

1,^ 


mm 


609 


Q<l 


BAYAKD  TAYLOPt. 
DAUGHTER   OF   EGYPT. 

Daughter  of  Egypt,  veil  tliine  eyes ! 

I  cannot  bear  their  fire  ; 
Nor  -svill  I  touch  with  sacrifice 

Those  altars  of  Desire. 
For  they  are  flames  that  shun  the  clay, 

And  their  unholy  light 
Is  fed  from  natures  gone  astray 

In  passion  and  in  night. 

The  stars  of  Beauty  and  of  Sin, 

They  burn  amid  the  dark. 
Like  beacons  that  to  ruin  win 

The  fascinated  bark. 
Then  veil  their  glow,  lest  I  forswear 

The  hopes  thou  canst  not  crown, 
And  in  the  black  waves  of  thy  hair 

My  struggling  manhood  drown  I 


ON  THE  SEA. 

The  pathway  of  the  sinking  moon 

Fades  from  the  silent  bay ; 
The  mountain-isles  loom  largo  and  faint, 

Folded  in  shadows  gray. 
And  the  li2;hts  of  land  are  setting  stars 

That  soon  will  pass  away. 
GIO 


BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

Oh,  boatman,  cease  tliy  mellow  song  ! 

Oh,  minstrel,  drop  thy  lyre  ! 
Let  us  hear  the  voice  of  the  midnight  sea, 

Let  us  speak  as  the  waves  inspire, 
While  the  plashy  dip  of  the  languid  oai- 

Is  a  furrow  of  silver  fii-e. 

Day  cauuot  make  thee  half  so  fair, 

Nor  the  stars  of  eve  so  dear : 
The  arms  that  clasp,  and  the  breast  that  keeps, 

They  tell  me  thou  art  near, 
And  the  pei-fect  beauty  of  thy  face 

In  thy  murmured  words  I  hear. 

The  lights  of  land  have  dropped  below 

The  vast  and  glimmering  sea  ; 
The  world  we  leave  is  a  tale  that  is  told  — 

A  fable,  that  cannot  be. 
There  is  no  life  in  the  s])hery  dark 

But  the  love  in  thee  and  me. 


BEDOUIN  SONG. 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 

On  a  stallion   shod   with  fire; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry: 
I  love  thee,  I  love  but  tliee, 
With  a  love  that  shall   not  die 
Till  the  sun  groics  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
Ami  the  leaves  of  the  Judgme»t 
Book  unfold/ 
(111 


BEDOUIN  SONG. 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain ; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 

With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 

By  the  fever  in  my  breast. 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door. 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old. 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold! 


612 


In  that  narrow  Venetian  street, 

On  the  wall  above  the  garden-gate 
(Within,  the  breath  of  the, rose  is  sweet, 

And  the  nightingale  sings  there,  soon  and  late), 

6i;5 


SAINT  CHRISTOPHER. 

kStaiids  Saint  Christopher,  carven  in  stone, 
With  the  little  child  in  his  huge  caress, 

And  the  arms  of  the  baby  Jesus  thrown 
About  his  gigantic  tenderness ; 

And  over  the  wall  a  wandering  growth 
Of  darkest  and  greenest  ivy  clings, 

And  climbs  around  them,  and  holds  them  both 
In  its  netted  clasp  of  knots  and  rings, 

Clothing  the  saint,  from  foot  to  beard. 

In  glittering  leaves  that  whisper  and  dance 

To  the  child,  on  his  mighty  arm  upreared, 
Witli  a  lusty,  summer  exuberance. 

To  the  child  on  his  arm  the  faithful  saint 
Looks  up  witli  a  broad  and  tranquil  joy. 

His  brows  and  his  heavy  beard  aslant 
Under  the  dimpled  chin  of  the  boy. 

Who  plays  with  the  world  upon  his  palm, 
And  bends  his  smiling  looks  divine 

On  the  face  of  the  giant,  rapt  and  calm. 
And  the  glittering  frolic  of  the  vine. 

He  smiles  on  either  with  equal  grace — 
On  the  simple  ivy's  unconscious  life. 

And  the  soul  in  the  giant's  lifted  face. 
Strong  from  the  peril  and  the  strife ; 

For  both  are  his  own — the  innocence 

That  climbs  from  the  heart  of  earth  to  heaven. 
And  the  virtue  that  greatly  rises  thence 

Through  trial  sent  and  victory  given. 

Grow,  ivy,  up  to  his  countenance  ! 

But  it  cannot  smile  on  my  life  as  on  thine — 
Look,  saint,  with  thy  trustful,  fearless  glance. 

Where  I  dare  not  lift  these  eyes  of  mine  ! 

G14 


ALDEK 

THE  ANCIENT  "  LADY  OF  SORROW." 

Her  closing  eyelids  mock  the  light ; 
Her  cold,  pale  lips  are  sealed  quite  ; 
Before  her  face  of  spotless  white 

A  mystic  veil  is  drawn. 
Our  Lady  hides  herself  in  night ; 
In  shadows  hath  she  her  delight ; 

She  will  not  see  the  dawn  ! 

The  morning  leaps  across  the  plain — 
It  glories  in  a  promise  vain  ; 
At  noon  the  day  begins  to  wane, 

With  its  sad  prophecy  ; 
At  eve  the  shadows  come  again : 
Our  Lady  finds  no  rest  from  pain, 

No  answer  to  her  cry. 

In  Spring  she  doth  her  Winter  wait ; 
The  Autumn  shadoweth  forth  her  fate ; 
Thus,  one  by  one,  years  iterate 

Her  mystic  tragedy. 
Before  her  pass  in  solemn  state 
All  shapes  that  come,  or  soon  or  late, 

Of  this  world's  misery. 

What  is,  or  shall  be,  or  hath  been, 
This  Lady  is  ;  and  she  hath  seen, 
Like  frailest  leaves,  the  tribes  of  men 

Come  forth,  and  quickly  die. 
Therefore  our  Lady  hath  no  rest ; 
For  close  beneath  her  snow-white  breast 

Her  weary  children  lie. 
015 


THE  ANCIENT  "LADY  OF  SORROW." 

She  taketli  on  her  all  our  grief; 

Her  Passion  passeth  all  relief; 

In  vain  she  holds  the  poj)py  leaf — 

In  vain  her  lotus  crown. 
Even  fabled  Lethe  hath  no  rest, 
No  solace  for  her  troubled  breast, 

And  no  oblivion. 

"Childhood  and  youth  are  vain,"  she  saith, 
"  Since  all  things  ripen  unto  death  ; 
The  flower  is  blasted  by  the  breath 

That  called  it  from  the  earth. 
And  yet,"  she  saith,  "  this  thing  is  sure — 
There  is  no  life  but  shall  endure, 

And  death  is  only  birth. 

"From  death  or  birth  no  powers  defend, 
And  thus  from  grade  to  grade  we  tend. 
By  resurrections  without  en<i, 

Unto  some  final  peace. 
But  distant  is  that  peace,"  she  saith ; 
Yet  eagerly  awaiteth  Death, 

Expecting  her  release. 

"  Oh  Rest,"  she  saith,  "  that  will  not  come, 
Not  even  when  our  lips  are  dumb. 
Not  even  when  our  limbs  are  numb. 

And  graves  are  growing  green. 
Oh  Death,  that,  coming  on  apace, 
Dost  look  so  kindly  in  the  lace, 

Thou  wear'st  a  treach'rous  mien." 

But  still  she  gives  the  shadow  place — 
Our  Lady,  with  the  saddest  grace, 
Doth  yield  her  to  his  feigned  embrace, 

And  to  his  treachery  ! 
Ye  must  not  draw  aside  her  veil ; 
Ye  must  not  hear  her  dying  wail  ; 

Ye  must  not  see  her  die. 
GIG 


ALDEN. 

But,  hark  I  from  out  the  stillness  rise 
Low-murmured  myths  and  prophecies, 
And  chants  that  tremble  to  the  skies — 

Miserere  Domine  ! 
They,  trembling,,  lose  themselves  in  rest, 
ISoothing  the  anguish  of  her  breast — 

Miserere  Domine  ! 


r.i7 


STODDAED. 

THE  SEA. 

[the  lovek.] 

You  stoopqd  and  picked  a  wreathed  shell 

Beside  the  shining  sea — 
"  This  little  shell,  when  I  am  gone, 

Will  whisper  still  of  me." 
I  kissed  your  liands,  upon  the  sands, 

For  you  were  kind  to  me. 

I  hold  the  shell  against  my  ear. 

And  hear  its  hollow  roar ; 
It  speaks  to  me  about  the  sea, 

But  speaks  of  you  no  more. 
I  pace  the  sands,  and  wTing  my  hands, 

For  you  are  kind  no  more. 


ON  THE  PIER. 

Down  at  the  end  of  the  long,  dark  street, 

Years,  years  ago, 
I  sat  with  my  sweetheart  on  the  pier. 

Watching  the  river  flow. 
618 


STODDARD. 

The  moon  was  climbiug  the  sky  that  niglit, 
White  as  the  winter's  snow : 

We  kissed  in  its  light,  and  swore  to  be  true- 
But  that  was  years  ago  ! 

Once  more  I  walk  in  the  dark  old  street, 

Wearily  to  and  fro — 
But  I  sit  no  more  on  the  desolate  pier, 

Watching  the  river  flow. 


THE  SKY  IS  THICK  UPON  THE  SEA. 

The  sky  is  thick  upon  the  sea, 
The  sea  is  sown  with  rain. 

And  in  the  passing  gusts  we  hear 
The  clanging  of  the  crane. 

The  cranes  are  flying  to  the  South ; 

We  cut  the  nortliern  foam; 
The  dreary  land  they  leave  behind 

Must  be  our  future  home. 

Its  barren  shores  are  long  and  dark, 
And  gray  its  autumn  sky ; 

But  better  these  than  this  gray  sea, 
If  but  to  laud — and  die  ! 


619 


DORR. 


THE  DRUMIVIER-BOY'S  BURIAL. 


All  day  long  the  storm  of  battle  through  the  startled  valley  swept ; 
All  night  long  the  stars  in  heav'n  o'er  the  slain  sad  vigils  tept. 

Oh  the  ghastly  upturned  faces  gleaming  whitely  through  the  night ! 
Oh  the  heaps  of  mangled  corses  in  that  dim  sepulchral  light ! 

G20 


DOER. 

One  by  one  the  pale  stars  faded,  and  at  length  the  morning  broke ; 
But  not  one  of  all  the  sleepers  on  that  field  of  death  awoke. 

Slowly  passed  the  golden  hours  of  that  long  bright  summer  day, 
And  upon  that  field  of  carnage  still  the  dead  unburied  lay : 

Lay  there  stark  and  cold,  but  pleading  with  a  dumb,  unceasing  prayer, 
For  a  little  dust  to  hide  them  from  the  staring  sun  and  air. 

t 

But  the  foemen  held  possession  of  that  hard-won  battle-plain. 
In  unholy  wrath  denying  even  burial  to  our  slain. 

T)nce  again  the  night  dropped  round  them — night  so  holy  and  so  calm 
That  the  moonbeams  hushed  the  spirit,  like  the  sound  of  prayer  or 
psalm. 

On  a  couch  of  trampled  grasses,  just  apart  from  all  the  rest. 
Lay  a  fair  young  boy,  with  small  hands  meekly  folded  on  his  breast 

Death  had  touched  him  very  gently,  and  he  lay  as  if  in  sleep — 
Even  his  mother  scarce  had  shuddered  at  that  slumber  calm  and  deep ; 

For  a  smile  of  wondrous  sweetness  lent  a  radiance  to  the  face. 
And  the  hand  of  cunning  sculptor  could  have  added  naught  of  grace 

To  the  marble  limbs  so  perfect  in  their  passionless  repose. 
Robbed  of  all  save  matchless  purity  by  hard,  unpitying  foes. 

And  the  broken  drum  beside  him  all  his  life's  short  story  told : 
How  he  did  his  duty  bravely  till  the  death-tide  o'er  him  rolled. 

Midnight  came  w'ith  ebon  garments  and  a  diadem  of  stars, 
While  right  upward  in  the  zenith  hung  the  fiery  planet  ]Mars. 

Hark !  a  sound  of  stealthy  footsteps  and  of  voices  whispering  h)\v — 
Was  it  nothing  but  the  young  leaves,  or  the  brooklet's  murmuring 
flow '? 

Clinging  closely  to  eacli  other,  striving  never  to  look  round 

As  they  passed  with  silent  shudder  the  pale  corses  on  the  ground, 

Came  two  little  maidens — sisters — with  a  light  and  hasty  tread, 
And  a  look  upon  their  faces  half  of  sorrow,  half  of  dread. 

G21 


THE  DRUMMER-BOY'S  BURIAL. 

And  they  did  not  pause  nor  falter  till,  with  thi'obbing  hearts,  they 

stood 
Where  the  Drummer-boy  was  lying  in  that  partial  solitude. 

They  had  brought  some  simple  garments  from  their  wardrobe's  scanty 

store, 
And  two  heavy  iron  shovels  in  their  slender  hands  they  bore. 

Then  they  quickly  knelt  beside  him,  ci'ushiiig  back  the  pitying  teai's, 
For  they  had  no  time  for  weeping,  nor  for  any  girlish  fears. 

And  they  robed  the  icy  body,  while  no  glow  of  maiden  sliame 
Changed  the  pallor  of  their  foreheads  to  a  flush  of  lambent  flame ; 

For  their  saintly  hearts  yearned  o'er  it  in  that  hour  of  sorest  need, 
And  they  felt  that  Death  was  holy,  and  it  sanctified  the  deed. 


But  they  smiled  and  kissed  each  other  when  their  new,  strange  task 

was  o'er, 
And  the  form  that  lay  before  them  its  unwonted  garments  wore. 


Then  with  slow  and  weary  labour  a  small  grave  they  hollowed  out, 
And  they  lined  it  with  the  withered  grass  and  leaves  that  lay  about. 

But  the  day  was  slowly  breaking  ere  their  holy  work  was  done, 
And  in  crimson  pomp  the  morning  again  heralded  the  sun. 

And  then  those  little  maidens — they  were  children  of  our  foes — 
Laid  the  body  of  our  Drummer-boy  to  undisturbed  repose. 


fi22 


ROSSETTI. 

THE    SEA-LIMITS. 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime : 
Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible — 
The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own  shell. 

Secret  continuance  sublime 

Is  the  sea's  end.     Our  sight  may  jDass 
No  furlong  farther.     Since  time  was, 

This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet,  which  is  death's — it  hath 

The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life, 

Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 
As  the  Avorld's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath, 

Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 

Lost  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands, 
Gray  and  not  known,  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea — 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods : 

Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 
Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee : 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged  men 

Surge,  and  sink  back,  and  surge  again — 
Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach, 
And  listen  at  its  lips  :   they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mystery. 

The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech. 
And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 
Not  anything  lint  what  thou  art ; 

And  P^arth,  Sea,  Man,  are  all  in  each. 

G2;j 


CHKISTINA  GABEIELLA  EOSSETTI. 

A  BIRTHDAY. 

My  heart  is  like  a  sinsrin^-bird 

Whose  nest  is  in  a  watered  shoot ; 
My  heart  is  like  an  apple-tree 

Whose  boughs  are  bent  with  thickset  fruit ; 
My  heart  is  like  a  rainbow  shell 

That  paddles  in  a  halcyon  sea — 
My  heart  is  gladder  than  all  these, 

Because  my  love  is  come  to  me. 

Raise  me  a  dais  of  silk  and  down, 

Hang  it  with  vair  and  purple  dyes, 
Carve  it  in  doves,  and  pomegranates. 

And  peacocks  with  a  hundred  eyes; 
Work  it  in  gold  and  silver  grapes, 

In  leaves,  and  silver  fleurs-de-lys. 
Because  the  birthday  of  my  life 

Is  come,  my  love  is  come  to  me. 


SING  NO  SAD  SONGS  FOR  JHE. 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 
Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me  ; 

Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 
Nor  shady  cypress-tree ; 
624 


CHRISTINA  GABRIELLA  ROSSETTl. 

13e  the  grecu  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dew-drops  wet, 

And  if  thou   wilt,  remember, 
And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  sliall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain  ; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain  ; 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set. 
Haply  I  may  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget. 


62,'> 


SWINBUKNE. 

BEFORE    PARTING. 

A  MONTH  or  twain  to  live  on  honeycomb 
Is  pleasant ;  bnt  one  tires  of  scented  time, 
Cold,  sweet  recurrence  of  accepted  rhyme, 

And  that  strong  purple  under  juice  and  foam 

Where  the  wine's  heart  has  burst, 

Nor  feel  the  latter  kisses  like  the  first. 

Once  yet,  this  poor  one  time  ;  I  will  not  pray 
Even  to  change  tlie  bitterness  of  it — 
The  bitter  taste  ensuing  on  the  sweet — 

To  make  your  tears  fall  where  your  soft  hair  lay 

All  blurred  and  heavy  in  some  perfumed  wise 

Over  my  face  and  eyes. 

And  yet,  wlio  knows  what  end  the  scythed  wlieat 
Makes  of  its  foolish  poppies'  mouths  of  red  'i 
These  were  not  sown  ;  these  are  not  harvested  ; 

They  grow  a  month,  and  are  cast  under  feet. 

And  none  has  care  thereof. 

As  none  has  care  of  a  divided  love. 

I  know  each  shadow  of  your  li[)s  by  rote, 

Each  change  of  love  in  eyelids  and  eyebrows  ; 
The  fashion  of  fair  temples  tremulous 

With  tender  blood,  and  colour  of  your  throat: 

I  know  not  how  love  is  gone  out  of  tliis, 

Seeing  that  all  was  liis. 

G20 


SWINBURNE. 

Love's  likeness  there  endures  upon  all  these — 
But  out  of  these  one  shall  not  gather  love. 
Day  hath  not  strength,  nor  the  night  shade  enough 

To  make  love  whole,  and  fill  his  lips  with  ease, 

As  some  bee-builded  cell 

Feels  at  filled  lips  the  honey  swell. 

I  know  not  how  this  last  month  leaves  your  haii- 
Less  full  of  purple  colour  and  hid  spice, 
And  that  luxurious  trouble  of  closed  eyes 

Is  mixed  with  meaner  shadows  and  Avaste  care  ; 

And  love,  kissed  out  by  pleasure,  seems  not  yet 

Worth  patience  to  regret. 


G-27 


STEDMAK 

THE   DOOR-STEP. 

The  Conference-meeting  througli  at  last, 
We  boys  around  the  vestry  waited 

To  see  the  girls  come  tripping  past 
Like  snow-birds  willing  to  be  mated. 

Not  braver  he  that  leaps  the  wall 

By  level  musket-flashes  litten 
Than  I,  who  stepped  before  them  all 

Who  longed  to  see  me  get  the  mitten. 

But  no  ;  she  blushed  and  took  my  arm  ! 

We  let  the  old  folks  have  the  highway, 
And  started  toward  the  Maple  Farm 

Along  a  kind  of  lovers'  by-way, 

I  can't  remember  what  we  said — 

'Twas  nothing  worth  a  song  or  story — 

Yet  that  rude  patli  l)y  which  we  sped 
Seemed  all  transformed  and  in  a  glory. 

The  snow  was  crisp  beneath  our  feet, 

The  moon  was  full,  the  fields  were  gleaming; 

Jiy  hood  and  tippet  sheltered  sweet. 

Her  face  witli  youth  and  health  was  beaming. 

The  little  hand  outside  her  muff 

(Oh,  sculptor,  if  you  could  but  mould  it  !) 

So  lightly  touched  my  jacket-cuff. 
To  keep  it  warm  I  had  to  hold  it. 

G28 


STEDMAN. 

To  have  her  with  me  there  aloiio — 

'Twas  love,  and  fear,  and  ti'iumpli  blended. 

At  last  we  reached  the  foot-worn  stone 
Where  that  delicious  journey  ended. 

The  old  folks,  too,  were  almost  home ; 

Her  dimpled  hand  the  latches  fingered ; 
We  heard  the  voices  nearer  come, 

Yet  on  the  door-ste])  still  we  lingered. 

She  shook  her  ringlets  from  her  hood. 

And  with  a  "  Thank  you,  Ned,"  dissembled ; 

But  yet  I  knew  she  understood 

With  what  a  darino-  wish  I  trembled. 


o 


A  cloud  passed  kindly  overhead, 

The  moon  was  slyly  peeping  through  it, 

Yet  hid  its  lace,  as  if  it  said, 

'•Come,  now  or  never — do  it!  do  it!'''' 

My  lips  till  then  had  only  known 
The  kiss  of  mother  and  of  sister, 

But  somehow,  full  upon  her  own 

Sweet,  rosy,  darling  mouth,  I  kissed  her  ! 

Perhaps  'twas  boyish  love,  yet  still, 
Oh  listless  woman,  weary  lover. 

To  feel  once  more  that  fresh,  wild  thrill, 
I'd  give — but  who  can  live  vouth  over? 


G29 


"DAliKNESS  AND  THE  SHADOW." 


"  DARKNESS  AND  THE  SHADOW." 

Waking,  I  have  been  nigli  to  Deatli — 
Have  felt  the  chilhiess  of  his  breath 
Whiten  my  cheek  and  numb  my  heart, 
And  wondered  why  he  stayed  his  dart — 
Yet  quailed  not,  but  could  meet  him  so. 
As  any  lesser  friend  or  foe. 

But  sleeping,  in  the  dreams  of  night 
His  phantom  stifles  me  with  fright. 
O  God !  what  frozen  horrors  fall 
Upon  me  Avith  his  visioned  pall — 
The  movelessness,  the  unknown  dread, 
Fair  life  to  pulseless  silence  wed  ! 

And  is  the  grave  so  darkly  deep, 
tSo  hopeless,  as  it  seems  in  sleep  ? 
Can  our  sweet  selves  the  coffin  hold 
So  dumb  within  its  crumbling  mould  ? 
And  is  the  shroud  so  dank  and  drear 
A  garb — the  noisome  worm  so  near  ? 

Whore,  then,  is  Heaven's  mercy  fled. 
To  quite  forget  the  voiceless  dead  ? 


630 


HALPINE  (MILES  O'KEILLY). 

RESIGNED. 

Never  again  on  the  slioulder 
To  see  our  kniglitly  bars  ; 
Never  again  on  the  shoukler 
To  see  our  lordly  leaves; 
Never  again  to  follow 

The  flag  of  the  Stripes  and  Stars; 
Never  again  to  dream  llie  divain 
That  martial  music  weaves. 
(J31 


RESIGNED. 

Never  again  call  "  Comrade" 

To  the  men  who  were  comrades  for  years 
Never  to  hear  the  bugles, 

Thrilling,  and  sweet,  and  solemn  ; 
Never  again  call  "Brother" 

To  the  men  we  think  of  with  tears ; 
Never  again  to  ride  or  march 

In  the  dust  of  the  marching  column. 

Never  again  be  a  sharer 

In  the  chilly  hour  of  the  strife 
When,  at  dawn,  the  skirmish-rifles 
In  Opening  chorus  rattle ; 
Never  to  feel  our  manhood 
Kindle  up  into  ruddy  life 
'Mid  the  hell  of  scenes  and  noises 
In  the  hot  hours  of  tlie  battle. 

Crippled,  forlorn,  and  useless. 

The  glorj'  of  life  grown  dim, 
Brooding  alone  o'er  the  memory 

Of  the  bright,  glad  days  gone  by; 
Nursing  a  bitter  fancy. 

And  nursing  a  shattered  limb ; 
Oh,  comrades,  resigning  is  hardei-— -' 
We  know  it  is  easy  to  die. 

Never  again  on  the  jacket 

To  see  our  knightly  bars  ; 
Never  again  on  the  jacket 
To  see  our  lordly  leaves  ; 
Never  again  to  follow 

The  flag  of  the  Stripes  and  Stars ; 
Never  again  to  dream  the  dream 
That  young  ambition  weaves. 


632 


GEOEGE  ELIOT. 

DAY  IS  DYING. 

(from  "  THE   SPAJSriSH   GYPSY.") 

Day  is  dying  !     Float,  O  song,    • 
Down  the  westward  river, 

Requiems  chanting  to  the  Day — 
Day,  the  mighty  Giver. 

Pierced  by  shafts  of  Time,  he  bleeds, 

Melted  rubies  sen  ding- 
Through  the  river  and  the  sky, 

Earth  and  heaven  blending  ; 

All  the  long-drawn  earthy  banks 

Up  to  cloud-land  lifting  ; 
Slow  between  them  drifts  the  swan, 

'Twixt  two  heavens  drifting. 

Wings  half  open,  like  a  flow'r 

July  deeper  flushing. 
Neck  and  breast  as  virgin's  ]Mirc — 

Virgin  proudly  blushing. 

Day  is  dying  !     Float,  O  swan, 

Down  the  I'uby  river ; 
Follow,  song,  in  requiem 

To  the  mio-htv  (TJver. 


633 


SPRING. 


SPRING. 

(prom  "  THE   SPANISH  GYPSY.") 

fSpKiNG  comes  hithev, 

Buds  the  rose  ; 
Roses  wither, 

Sweet  Spring  goes. 
Ojalu,  would  she  carry  me  !  ' 

Summer  soars — 

Wide-winged  day 
White  light  pours, 
Flies  away. 
Ojala,  would  he  carry  me  ! 

Soft  winds  blow, 
Westward  born, 

Onward  go 

Toward  the  morn. 
Ojala,  would  they  cari-y  me  ! 

Sweet  birds  sing 

O'er  the  graves, 
Then  take  wing 
O'er  the  waves. 
Ojah'i,  would  they  carry  me! 


634 


GEORGE  ELIOT. 


'•IT  WAS  IN  THE  PRIME/' 

(from  "  THE   SPANISH   GYPSY.'') 

It  was  in  the  prime 

Of  the  sweet  Spring-time. 

In  the  linnet's  throat 

Trembled  the  love-note, 
And  the  love-stirred  air 
Thrilled  the  blossoms  there. 

Little  shadows  danced — 
Each  a  tiny  elf — 

Happy  in  large  light 
"And  the  thinnest  sell'. 

It  was  bnt  a  minnte 
In  a  far-off  Spring, 
But  each  gentle  thing — 

Sweetly-wooing  linnet, 
Soft-thrilled  hawthorn-tree 
Happy  shadowy  elf 
With  the  thinnest  scli- 
Live  still  on  in  me. 

O  the  sweet,  sweet  prime 

Of  the  past  Spring-time  ! 


BEEES. 


A  DOG'S  DAY  ENDED. 


I  AM  only  a  dog,  and  I've  had  my  day  ; 
So,  idle  and  dreaming,  stretched  out  I  lay 
In  the  welcome  warmth  of  the  summer  sun, 
A  poor  old  hunter  whose  work  is  done. 


Dream  ?     Yes,  indeed ;  though  I  am  but  a  dog. 
Don't  I  dream  of  the  partridge  I  sprung  1)y  the  log, 
Of  the  quivering  hare  and  her  desperate  flight. 
Of  the  nimble  gray  squirrel  secure  in  his  height, 

636 


i 


BEERS. 

Far  away  iu  the  top  of  the  hickory-tree, 
Looking  down  safe  and  saucy  at  Matthew  and  nie, 
Till  the  hand  true  and  steady  a  messenger  shot, 
And  the  creature  upbounded,  and  fell,  and  was  not  ? 

Old  Matthew  was  king  of  the  wood-rangers  then ; 
And  the  quails  iu  the  stubble,  the  ducks  in  the  fen, 
The  hare  on  the  common,  the  birds  on  the  bough. 
Were  afraid.     They  are  safe  enough  now, 

For  all  we  can  harm  them,  old  master  and  I. 
We  have  had  our  last  hunt,  the  game  must  go  by, 
While  Matthew  sits  fashioning  bows  in  the  door 
For  a  living.     We  never  hunt  more. 

For  time,  cold,  and  hardship  have  stiffened  his  knee ; 
And  since  little  Lottie  died,  often  I  see 
His  hands  tremble  sorely,  and  go  to  his  eyes 
For  the  lost  baby-daughter  so  pretty  and  wise. 

Oh  !  it's  sad  to  be  old,  and  to  see  the  blue  sky 
Look  farther  away  to  the  dim  fiding  eye  ; 
To  feel  the  fleet  foot  growing  weary  and  sore 
That  in  forest  and  hamlet  shall  las:  evermore. 

I  am  going — I  hear  the  great  wolf  on  my  track ; 
Already  around  me  his  shadow  falls  black. 
One  hunting  cry  more!     Oh,  master!   come  nigh, 
And  lay  the  white  paw  in  your  own  as  I  die. 

Oh  come  to  me,  master !   the  last  hedge  is  passed  ; 
Our  tramps  in  the  wild  wood  are  over  at  last ; 
Stoop  lower,  and  lay  down  my  head  on  your  knee. 
What !  tears  for  a  useless  old  hunter  like  me  ? 

You  will  see  little  Lottie  again  by-and-by. 
I  sha'n't.     Tliey  don't  have  any  dogs  in  the  sky. 

G37 


A  DOG'S  DAY  ENDED. 

Tell  her,  loving  and  trusty  beside  you  I  died, 
And — bury  me,  master,  not  far  from  her  side  ; 

For  we  loved  little  Lottie  so  well,  you  and  I. 
Ha,  master  !  the  shadow  !  fire  low  !  it  is  nigh ! 
There  was  never  a  sound  in  the  still  morning  heard, 
But  the  heart  of  the  hunter  his  old  jacket  stirred 

As  he  flung  himself  down  on  the  brute's  shaggy  coat, 
And  watched  the  faint  life  in  its  quivering  throat 
Till  it  stopped  quite  at  last.     The  black  wolf  had  won. 
And  the  death-liunted  hound  into  cover  had  run. 

But  long  ere  the  snow  over  graves  softly  fell, 
Old  Matthew  was  resting  from  labour  as  well ; 
While  the  cottage  stood  empty,  yet  back  from  the  hill 
The  voice  of  the  hound  in  the  morn  echoes  still. 


.,Mti#¥%TS^^f^- 


638 


LAECOM. 

HANNAH  BINDING  SHOES. 

Poor  lone  Hannah, 
Sitting  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 

Faded,  wrinkled, 
Sitting,  stitching,  in  a  mournful  muse. 
Bright-eyed  beauty  once  was  she. 
When  the  bloom  was  on  the  tree  : 
Spring  and  winter, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 


Not  a  neighbour 
Passino;  nod  or  answer  will  refuse 

To  her  w^hisper, 
"Is  there  from  the  fishers  any  news?" 
Oh,  her  lieart's  adrift  with  one 
On  an  endless  voyage  gone  ! 
Night  and  morning, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 


Fair  young  Hannah, 
Ben,  the  sunburnt  fisher,  gayly  woos ; 

Hale  and  clever, 
For  a  willing  heart  and  hand  he  snes. 
May-day  skies  are  all  aglow. 
And  the  waves  are  laugliing  so — 
For  her  wedding 
Hannah  leaves  her  window  and  lu'r  slioes; 

(539 


HANNAH  BINDING  SHOES. 

^lay  is  passing : 
'Mid  the  apple  boughs  a  pigeon  coos : 

Ilainiali  shudders, 
For  the  mild  southwestcr  iniscliief  brews. 
Ivouiid  the  rocks  of  Marblehead, 
Outward  bound,  a  schooner  sped — 
Silent,  lonesome, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,  binding  shoes. 


'Tis  November. 
Now  no  tears  her  wasted  cheek  bedews. 

From  Newfoundland 
Not  a  sail  returning  will  she  lose, 

Whispering  hoarsely,  "  Fishermen, 
Have  you — have  yon  heard  of  Ben '?"' 
Old  with  Avatching, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,  binding:  shoes. 


Twenty  winters 
Bleach  and  tear  the  ragged  shore  she  views; 

Twenty  seasons — 
Never  one  has  brought  her  any  news. 
Still  her  dim  eyes  silently 
Chase  the  white  sails  o'er  the  sea  : 
Hopeless,  faithful, 
Hannah's  at  the  window,  bindino-  shoes. 


()40 


ALICE  GARY. 

"  THOU  THAT  DRAWEST  ASIDE  THE  CURTAIN." 
(from  "the  lover's  diary.") 

Thou  that  drawest  aside  the  curtain, 
Letting  in  the  moon's  broad  beams, 

Give  me  back  tlie  sweet,  th'  uncertain — 
Give,  O  give  me  back  my  dreams. 

Take  the  larger  light  and  grander, 

Piercing  all  things  through  and  through ; 

Give  me  back  the  misty  splendour. 
Give  me  back  the  darling  dew. 

Take  the  harvest's  ripe  profusions, 

Golden  as  the  evening  skies  ; 
Give  me  back  my  soft  delusions, 

Give  me  back  my  wondering  eyes. 

Take  the  passionless  caresses 

All  to  Avaveless  calm  allied ; 
Give  me  back  my  heart's  sweet  guesses. 

And  my  hopes  unsatisfied. 

Thou  that  raak'st  the  real  too  real, 
O,  I  pray  thee,  get  thee  hence  ! 

Give  me  back  my  old  ideal. 
Give  me  back  my  ignorance. 


G41  ss 


"COME  OUT  TO  THE  SIDE  OF  THE  SEA." 


"  COME  OUT  TO  THE  SIDE  OF  THE  SEA." 

(fKOM  "  THE  lover's  DIARY.") 

Come  out  to  the  side  of  the  sea,  my  love, 
Come  out  to  the  side  of  the  sea ; 

The  sun  is  set,  and  the  stars  are  met, 
And  the  winds  and  the  waves  agree. 

But  star  so  bright,  nor  wave  so  light. 
Brings  pleasure  or  peace  to  me. 

0  come,  for  I  sit  and  wait,  alone, 

On  the  rocks  by  the  side  of  the  sea. 

1  am  going  down  in  my  memory 
To  the  blessed  long  ago. 

When  the  golden  ground  of  the  buttercups 
Was  dashed  with  the  daisies'  snow ; 

And  I'm  thinking  of  all  you  said  to  me. 
And  if  it  were  true  or  no, 

While  I  watch  the  tide  as  it  runs  away 
From  the  beach  so  black  and  low. 

Tf  I  should  die,  my  love,  my  sweet, 

Die  of  your  smile  forlorn, 
Bury  me  here  by  the  side  of  the  sea, 

Wliere  all  my  joy  w^as  born  ; 
Where  the  Avaves  shall  make  my  lullaby, 

And  the  winds  from  night  till  morn 
Shall  say  to  the  rocks,  "  He  is  gone  to  sleep 

Where  all  his  joy  was  born." 


642 


PHCEBE  CAEY. 

DREAMS  AND  REALITIES. 

O  IlosAMOND,  thou  fair  and  good, 
And  perfect  flower  of  womanhood, 

Thou  royal  rose  of  June, 
Why  didst  thou  droop  before  thy  time? 
Why  wither  in  thy  first  sweet  prime? 

Why  didst  thou  die  so  soon  ? 

For,  looking  backward  through  my  tears 
On  thee  and  on  my  wasted  years, 

I  cannot  choose  but  say. 
If  thou  hadst  lived  to  be  my  guide. 
Or  thou  liadst  lived  and  I  had  died, 

'Twere  better  far  to-day. 

O  child  of  light,  O  golden  head — 
Jh'ight  sunbeam  for  one  moment  shed 

Upon  life's  lonely  way — 
Why  didst  thou  vanish  from  our  sight  V 
Could  they  not  spare  my  little  liglit 

From  heaven's  unclouded  day  ? 

O  friend  so  true,  O  friend  so  good — 
Thou  one  dream  of  my  maidenhood, 

That  gave  youth  all  its  charms — 
What  had  I  done,  or  what  hadst  thou. 
That  through  this  lonesoiiie  world  till  now 

We  walk  with  empty  arms '? 
643 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES. 

And  yet,  had  this  poor  soul  been  fed 
With  all  it  loved  and  coveted — 

Had  life  been  always  fair — 
Would  these  dear  dreams  that  ne'er  depart, 
That  thrill  with  bliss  my  inmost  heart, 

Forever  tremble  there  ? 

If  still  they  kept  their  earthly  place, 
The  friends  I  held  in  ray  embrace. 

And  gave  to  death,  alas  ! 
Could  I  have  learned  that  clear,  calm  laith 
That  looks  beyond  the  bounds  of  death, 

And  aliiiost  longs  to  pass  ? 

Sometimes  I  think  the  things  Ave  see 
Are  shadows  of  the  things  to  be ; 

That  what  we  plan  we  build ; 
That  every  hope  that  hath  been  crossed, 
And  every  dream  Ave  thought  was  lost. 

In  heaven  shall  be  fulfilled  ; 

That  even  the  children  of  the  brain 
Have  not  been  born  and  died  in  vain, 

Though  here  unclothed  and  dumb  ; 
But  on  some  brighter,  better  shore 
They  live,  embodied  evermore. 

And  Avait  for  us  to  come. 

And  Avhen  on  that  last  day  Ave  rise. 
Caught  up  between  the  earth  and  skies. 

Then  shall  Ave  hear  our  Lord 
Say,  Thou  hast  done  Avith  doubt  and  death  ; 
Henceforth,  according  to  thy  faith, 

Sliall  be  thy  faith's  reward. 


644 


HAY. 
MY  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN. 

There  was  never  a  castle  seen 

So  fair  as  mine  in  Spain  : 
It  stands,  embowered  in  green, 
Crowning  the  gentle  slope 
Of  a  hill  by  the  Xenil's  shore, 
And  at  eve  its  shade  flaunts  o'er 

The  storied  Vega  plain, 
And  its  towers  are  hid  in  the  mists  of  Hope; 

And  I  toil  through  years  of  pain 

Its  glimmering  gates  to  gain. 

In  visions  wild  and  sweet 
Sometimes  its  courts  I  greet; 

Sometimes  in  joy  its  shining  halls 
I  tread  with  favoured  feet ; 
But  never  my  eyes  in  the  -light  of  day 

Were  blest  with  its  ivied  walls, 
Where  the  marble  white  and  the  granite  gray 
Turn  gold  alike  when  the  sunbeams  i)lay, 

When  the  soft  day  dimly  falls. 

I  know  in  its  dusky  rooms 

Are  treasures  rich  and  rare  : 
The  spoil  of  Eastern  looms. 

And  whatever  of  bright  and  fiiir 
Painters  divine  have  caught  and  won 

From  the  vault  of  Italy's  air: 
White  gods  in  Phidinn  stone 


MY  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN. 

People  the  haunted  glooms ; 
And  the  song  of  immortal  singers 
Like  a  fragrant  memory  lingers, 

I  know,  in  the  echoing  rooms. 

But  nothing  of  these,  my  soul ! 

Nor  castle,  nor  treasures,  nor  skies, 
Nor  the  waves  of  the  river  that  roll 

With  a  cadence  faint  and  sweet 

In  peace  by  its  marble  feet — 
Nothing  of  these  is  the  goal 

For  which  my  whole  heart  sighs. 
'Tis  the  pearl  gives  worth  to  the  shell- 

The  pearl  I  would  die  to  gain  ; 
For  there  does  my  Lady  dwell, 
My  love  that  I  love  so  well — 

The  Queen  whose  gracious  reign 

Makes  glad  my  Castle  in  Spain. 

Her  crown  of  golden  hair 

Sheds  light  in  the  shaded  places, 
And  the  spell  of  her  girlish  graces 

Makes  glad  the  happy  air. 

A  breath  of  purity 

Forever  before  her  flies, 

And  ill  things  cease  to  be 

In  the  glance  of  her  honest  eyes. 

Around  her  pathway  flutter, 

Where  her  dear  feet  wander  free, 
In  youth's  pure  majesty. 

The  Avings  of  the  vague  desires ; 

But  the  thought  that  love  would  utter 
In  reverence  expires. 

Not  yet !  not  yet  shall  I  see 

That  face,  which  shines  like  a  star 
O'er  my  storm-swejit  life  afar, 

Transfigured  with  love  for  me. 

G-tG 


HAY. 

Toiling,  forgetting,  and  learning, 

"With  labour,  and  vigils,  and  prayers, 
Pure  heart  and  resolute  will. 
At  last  I  shall  climb  the  hill. 

And  breathe  the  enchanted  airs 
Where  the  light  of  my  life  is  burning, 

Most  lovely,  and  fair,  and  free ; 
Where  alone  in  her  youth  and  beauty. 
And  bound  by  her  fate's  sweet  duty. 

Unconscious  she  waits  for  me. 


WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

A  SEKTiNEL  angel,  sitting  high  in  glory. 
Heard  this  shrill  wail  ring  out  from  purgatory: 
"Have  mercy,  mighty  angel!  hear  my  story. 

"  I  loved,  and,  blind  with  passionate  love,  I  fell : 
Love  brought  me  down  to  death,  and  death  to  hell ; 
For  God  is  just,  and  death  for  sin  is  well. 

"I  do  not  rage  against  his  high  decree, 
Xor  for  myself  do  ask  that  grace  shall  be. 
But  for  my  love  on  earth,  who  mourns  for  me. 

"  Great  spirit,  let  me  see  my  love  again, 
And  comfort  him  one  hour,  and  I  were  fain 
To  i^ay  a  thousand  years  of  fire  and  pain." 

Then  said  the  jjitying  angel :  "  Xay,  repent 
That  wild  vow.     Look !   the  dial-iiiiger\s  bent 
Dowu  to  the  last  hour  of  thy  punishment." 

G47 


WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

But  still  she  wailed :  "  I  pvay  thee,  let  me  go ; 
I  cannot  rise  to  peace  and  leave  him  so  ! 
Oh,  let  me  soothe  him  in  his  bitter  woe !" 

The  brazen  gates  ground  sullenly  ajar, 
And  upward,  joyous,  like  a  rising  star 
She  rose,  and  vanished  in  the  ether  far. 

But  soon  adown  the  dying  sunset  sailing, 
And  like  a  wounded  bird  her  pinions  trailing, 
She  fluttered  back  with  broken-hearted  wailino-. 

She  sobbed :  "  I  found  him  by  the  summer  sea 

Reclined,  his  head  upon  a  maiden's  knee  ; 

She  curled  his  hair  and  kissed  him.     Woe  is  me ! 


She  wept :  "  Now  let  ray  punishment  begin  : 
I  have  been  fond  and  foolish.     Let  me  in 
To  expiate  my  sorrow  and  my  sin." 

The  angel  answered :  "  Nay,  sad  soul,  go  higher  ! 
To  be  deceived  in  your  true  heart's  desire 
Was  bitterer  than  a  thousand  years  of  fire  !*" 


648 


BRET  HARTE. 

"  CICELY." 
(alkaxi  station.) 

Cicely  says  you're  a  poet ;  may  be ;  I  ain't  much  on  rhyme  : 
I  reckon  you'd  give  me  a  hundred,  and  beat  me  every  time. 
Poetry !     That's  the  way  some  chaps  put's  up  an  idee, 
But  I  takes  mine  "  straight,  without  sugar,"  and  that's   what's  the 
matter  with  me. 


Poetry !     Just  look  around  you — alkali,  rock,  and  sage  ; 

Sage-brush,  rock,  and  alkali — ain't  it  a  pretty  page  ? 

Sun  in  the  east  at  mornin',  sun  in  the  west  at  night, 

And  the  shadow  of  this  yer  station  the  ou'y  thing  moves  in  sight. 


Poetry  !     Well,  now — Polly  !     Polly,  run  to  your  mam  ; 
Run  right  away,  my  pooty !     By-by !     Ain't  she  a  lamb? 
Poetry — that  reminds  me  o'  su'thin'  right  in  that  suit ; 
Jest  shet  that  door  tliar,  will  yer,  for  Cicely's  ears  is  cute. 


Ye  noticed  Polly — the  baby?    A  month  afore  she  was  born, 
Cicely — my  old  woman — was  moody-like  and  forlorn  ; 
Out  of  her  head  and  crazy,  and  talked  of  flowers  and  trees — 
Family  man  yourself,  sir?    Well,  you  know  what  a  woman  be's. 


Narvous  she  was,  and  restless ;  said  that  slic  "  couldn't  stay." 
Stay — and  the  nearest  woman  seventeen  miles  away ! 
But  I  fixed  it  up  with  the  doctor,  and  he  said  he  would  be  on  hand, 
And  I  kinder  stuck  bv  the  shantv,  and  fenced  in  tliat  bit  o'  land. 

649 


"CICELY." 

One  night — the  tenth  of  October — I  woke  with  a  chill  and  fright, 
For  the  door  it  was  standing  open,  and  Cicely  warn't  in  sight, 
But    a   note    Avas    2)inned    on   the   blanket,  which   it    said  that    she 

"  couldn't  stay," 
But  had  gone  to  visit  her  neighbor — seventeen  miles  away ! 


When  and  how  she  stamj^eded  I  didn't  wait  for  to  see, 
For  out  in  the  road,  next  minit,  I  started  as  wild  as  she  ; 
Running  first  this  way  and  that  way,  like  a  hound  that  is  off  the 

scent, 
For  there  warn't  no  track  in  the  darkness  to  tell  me  the  way  she  went. 


I've  had  some  mighty  mean  moments  afore  I  kem  to  this  spot- 
Lost  on  the  Plains  in  '50,  drowned  almost,  and  shot — 
But  out  on  this  alkali  desert,  a-huntiug  a  crazy  wife, 
Was  ra'ly  as  on-satis-factory  as  anything  in  my  life. 


"  Cicely !  Cicely  !  Cicely  !"  I  called,  and  I  held  my  breath  ; 

And  "  Cicely  !"  came  from  the  canyon — and  all  was  as  still  as  death  ; 

And  "Cicely!  Cicely!  Cicely!"  came  from  the  i-ocks  below, 

And  jest  but  a  whisper  of  "  Cicely !"  down  from  them  peaks  of  snow. 


I  ain't  what  you  call  religious,  but  I  jest  looked  up  to  the  sky. 
And — this  yer's  to  what  I'm  coming,  and  maybe  ye  think  I  lie  ; 
But  up  away  to  the  east'ard,  yaller,  and  big,  and  far, 
I  saw  of  a  suddent  rising  the  singlerest  kind  of  star. 


Big,  and  yaller,  and  dancing,  it  seemed  to  beckon  to  me ; 
Yaller,  and  big,  and  dancing,  such  as  you  never  see ; 
Big,  and  yaller,  and  dancing — I  never  saw  such  a  star. 
And  I  thought  of  them  sharps  in  the  Bible,  and  I  went  for  it  then 
and  thar, 

650 


BRET  HARTE. 


Over  the  brush  and  boulders  I  stumbled  and  pushed  ahead ; 
Keeping  the  star  afore  me,  I  went  wherever  it  led  ; 
It  might  hev  been  for  an  hour,  when  suddent,  and  peart,  and  nigli. 
Out  of  the  yearth  afore  me  thar  riz  up  a  baby's  cry. 


Listen !  thar's  the  same  music  ;  but  her  lungs,  they  are  stronger  now 
Than  the  day  I  packed  her  and  her  mother — I'm  derned  if  I  jest 

know  how. 
But  the  doctor  kem  the  next  minit,  and  the  joke  o'  the  whole  thing  is. 
That  Cis  never  knew  what  happened  from  that  very  night  to  this ! 


But  Cicely  says  you're  a  poet,  and  maybe  you  might,  some  day, 
Jest  sling  her  a  rhyme  'bout  a  baby  that  was  born  in  a  curious  way — 
And  see  what  she  says.    And,  old  fellow,  when  you  speak  of  the  star, 

don't  tell 
As  how  the  doctor's  lAntern — for  maybe  'twon't  sound  so  well. 


651 


CONANT. 


A  DREAJI  OF  FAIRIES. 


It  was  Summer — it  was  June ; 

Slept  the  sun  in  western  bowers ; 
Up  had  risen  the  round  moon : 

Fainting  with  the  breath  of  flowers, 
Hushed  the*  air  its  leafy  tune. 
652 


CONAKT. 


Faint  gray  clouds  upon  the  sky, 

Where  the  failing  zephyrs  blew  them, 

Here  and  there  hung,  far  and  high  ; 

And  the  stars  were  winking  through  them 

With  a  dim  and  sleepy  eye. 


Everywhere,  on  every  side, 

Quiet  breathing,  rest  of  Summer, 

And  luxurious  peace,  denied 

Unto  Spring,  the  riotous  comer. 

Rashly  wooing  his  coy  bride. 

Helen,  sitting  on  the  grass, 

Just  within  a  grove  of  beeches 

(Like  a  Fairy  kingdom  'twas), 
Gazed  adown  the  sylvan  reaches. 

Where  the  Fairy  Queen  may  jjass. 

Mystic  hollows,  shadows  gray. 
And  a  play  of  silvery  shimmer ; 

Rock  and  tree-trunk,  leaf  and  spray. 
Seemed,  in  that  uncertain  glimmer. 

Ghosts  of  what  they  were  by  day. 

By  the  great  trees  over-boughed, 

Flecked  Avith  shadows  and  moon-glances, 

Sat  she,  still  and  thoughtful-browed. 
Dreaming  a  whole  world  of  fancies^ 

Not  a  word  of  them  aloud ! 


In  the  sliadow  of  the  boughs 
Thus  ran  on  her  dim-eyed  fancy 

(For  the  goddess  of  sweet  vows 
With  the  subtlest  necromancv 

Every  lover's  brain  endows)  : 

653 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIRIES. 

"  Fie,  ye  Fairies  !     So  remiss  ! 

Forty  minutes  have  I  waited 
For  those  graceful  courtesies 

Done  to  straying  folk,  belated 
In  old  time,  beneath  the  trees. 

"  Have  ye  fled  away  from  earth, 

From  our  mountains  and  our  valleys, 

From  the  castle,  from  the  hearth. 
From  the  winding  forest  alleys. 

Taking  all  your  tricksy  mirth? 

"Where  is  all  the  frolic  crowd 
Footed  meadows  in  times  olden. 

When  the  air  breathed  not  aloud, 
And  the  moon,  full-faced  and  golden, 

Walked  throuoh  heaven  without  a  cloud? 


o 


"  Whereto  have  ye  fled  and  gone, 
Since  King  Arthur's  time,  I  wonder? 

To  the  top  of  mountains  flown  ? 
To  the  dismal  regions  under, 

Where  the  sunlight  never  shone  ? 


o 


"  Whereto  have  ye  disappeared  ? 

Round  the  j^lanets  hiding,  seeking  ? 
Plucking  comets  by  the  beard? 

Down  yon  pathway  dancing,  freaking, 
Where  no  human  step  is  feared? 

"  Wherefore  have  ye  left  our  brooks. 

Glens,  and  groves,  and  meadows,  friendless  ? 

Sigh  ye  not  for  those  old  nooks? 
Have  ye  found,  in  regions  endless, 

Haunts  Avith  half  so  lovely  looks? 

054 


CONANT. 

"Answer  none  !     Ah  !  nevermore 

In  the  woodlands  shall  we  view  them, 

Nor  on  grassy  meadow-floor; 
Nor  by  falling  waters  woo  them 

To  us,  as  in  days  of  yore. 

"Nevermore,  in  lonely  wood. 

Maids  shall  hear  dim  strains  allnring, 

Strains  that  cannot  be  withstood ; 
Something  that's  divine  assuring 

Nothing  shall  be  met  but  good. 

"  Could  we  turn  earth  back  again. 

And  those  olden  days  recover  ! 
Some  high  lady  Avere  I  then. 

And  a  glorious  knight  my  lover, 
Noblest,  famousest  of  men  ; 

"Through  the  Avide  Avorld  nobly  famed 

For  his  gentleness  and  A-alour ; 
By  the  poor  down-trodden  claimed ; 

Wrong's  dark  cheek  would  turn  to  pallor 
But  to  hear  his  scutcheon  named ! 

"But  his  noble  heart  would  be 

Mine,  though  Ave  were  realms  asunder ; 

And,  when  victory  left  him  free, 
He  would  come  back,  to  sit  under 

The  old  oak-tree  boughs  Avith  me. 

'*•  For  a  castle  should  be  ours, 

Many-towered,  high-walled,  deep-moated 
Ringed  Avith  groves,  and  laAvns,  and  floAVers ; 

Founts  from  marble  basins  spouted, 
Falling  back  in  silvery  showers. 

G55 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIRIES. 

"Underneath  the  old  oak-ti-ees 

With  green  chaplets  I  would  crown  him  ; 
Do  him  dearer  courtesies 

Than  a  queen  could  smile  upon  him 
For  his  famous  victories; 

"  While  my  noble  knight  would  tell 
Hard  adventures,  wild  and  daring ; 

How  the  wizard-robber  fell, 

And  the  flames,  the  midnight  scaring, 

Shot  up  from  his  citadel; 

"  How  the  potent  Fairy  King 
Was  his  Genius  and  his  leaguer ; 

Of  the  Avondrous  Horn  and  Ring ; 
And  the  Goblet,  to  lips  eager 

With  wine  gushing,  like  a  spring ; 

"How  he  passed  through  forests  old, 
Haunts  of  drear,  mysterious  dangers. 

Where  the  Giants  have  their  hold. 
And  the  scaly  Dragon-rangers 

Guard  enchanted  heaps  of  gold ; 

"How  the —    Hush!  what  strains  are  those? 

Some  enchantment  o'er  me  creeping?" 
Soft  and  slow  her  eyelids  close — 

She  droops  sideways — she  is  sleeping. 
While  the  music  ebbs  and  flows  ; 

Sleeping,  cheek  upon  her  arm, 

Her  unknotted  hair  loose  straying; 

Xaught  can  fall  to  her  of  harm 

With  the  placid  moonlight  playing 

On  her  eyelids  like  a  charm. 

656 


Lo,  a  thousand  merry  sijrites, 

Their  lithe  bodies  sparkling,  flashing, 

Shower  of  animated  liglits. 

Like  the  crystal  rain  a  dashing 

Wind  from  frosty  branches  smites; 


Round  about  her,  on  the  ground, 
In  the  silvered  air  above  her, 
G57 


T  T 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIRIES. 

To  the  small,  sweet,  tinkling  sound 

Merrily  skip,  dance,  and  hovei', 
Singing  this  fantastic  round : 

"Happy  and  free. 
Merrily  Ave 

Flit  through  the  dells, 
Sleep  in  the  cells 
Of  flower-cups  and  bells. 
Zephyr  and  Moonlight 

Know  where  we  bide, 
Hidden  from  noonlight. 

Snugly  we  hide ! 
Zephyr,  Moonlight,  never  tell 
Where  the  Fairy  people  dwell !" 

Tu  rohit,  tu  whoo !  tu  whit,  tu  xohoo! 

Sleep  and  Fairies  fly  together. 
From  the  grove  glides  Helen,  too, 

Slowly,  slowly,  wondering  whether 
It  was  all  a  dream,  or  true. 


658 


BOKEE. 

DTRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER. 

Close  his  eyes — his  work  is  done; 

What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ; 
What  cares  he?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low. 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight — 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavour; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ; 
What  cares  he?  he  cannot  know; 
Lay  him  low. 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  Stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley ; 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars — 
What  but  Death  bemocking  Folly? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
III  the  clover  or  the  snow ; 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  : 
Lay  him  low. 


SONNET. 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye, 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by — 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low. 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ; 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low. 


SONNET. 

Nay,  not  to  thee — to  Nature  will  I  tie 

The  gather'd  blame  of  every  pettish  mood ; 

And  when  thou  frown'st,  I'll  frown  npon  the  wood, 
Saying,  "  How  wide  its  gloomy  shadows  lie !" 
Or,  gazing  straight  into  the  day's  bright  eye. 

Predict  ere  night  a  second  fatal  flood ; 

Or  vow  the  poet's  sullen  solitude 
Has  changed  my  vision  to  a  darksome  dye. 
But  when  thou  smil'st,  I'll  not  look  above 

To  wood  or  sky ;  my  hand  I  will  not  lay 
Upon  the  temple  of  my  sacred  love. 

To  blame  its  living  fires  with  base  decay; 
But  whisper  to  thee,  as  I  nearer  move, 

"Love,  thou  dost  add  another  light  to  day." 


C()0 


WHITMAN. 

PROUD  MUSIC  OF  THE  STORM. 

1 

'  Proud  music  of  the  storm  ! 

Blast  that  careers  so  free,  whistling  across  the  prairies  ! 

Strong  hum  of  forest  tree-tops  !    wind  of  the  mountains  ! 

Personified  dim  shapes  !  you  hidden  orchestras  ! 

You  serenades  of  phantoms,  with  instruments  alert. 

Blending,  with  Nature's  rhythmus,  all  the  tongues  of  nations  ; 

You  chords  left  as  by  vast  composers  !   you  choruses  ! 

You  formless,  free,  religious  dances  !   you  from  the  Orient ! 

You  undertone  of  rivers,  roar  of  pouring  cataracts ; 

You  sounds  from  distant  guns,  with  galloping  cavalry ! 

Echoes  of  camps,  with  all  the  different  bugle-calls  ! 

Trooj^ing  tumultuous,  filling  the  midnight  late,  bending  me  powerless, 

Entering  my  lonesome  slumber-chamber — Why  have  you  seiz'd  me? 


2  Come  forward,  O  my  Soul,  and  let  the  rest  retire ; 
Listen — lose  not — it  is  toward  thee  they  tend; 
Parting  the  midnight,  entering  my  slumber-chamber, 
For  thee  they  sing  and  dance,  O  Soul. 

•''  A  festival  song  ! 

The  duet  of  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride — a  marriage-march, 
With  lips  of  love,  and  hearts  of  lovers,  fill'd  to  the  brim  with  love ; 
The  red-flush'd  cheeks,  and  perfumes — the  cortege  swarming,  full  of 

friendly  faces,  young  and  old, 
To  flutes'  clear  notes,  and  sounding  harps'  cantabilc. 

G61 


PKOUD  MUSIC  OF  THE  STORM. 


3 

*  Xow  loud  approaching  drums  ! 

Victoria!  see'st  thou  in  powder-smoke  the  banners  torn,  but  flying? 

the  rout  of  the  bafiled  ? 
Hearest  those  shouts  of  a  conquering  army? 

^  (Ah,  Soul,  the  sobs  of  women— the  wounded  groaning  in  agony, 
The  hiss  and  crackle  of  flames — the  blacken'd  ruins — the  embers  of 

cities. 
The  dirge  and  desolation  of  mankind.) 

4 

^  Now  airs  antique  and  medieval  fill  me ; 

I  see  and  hear  old  harpers  with  their  harjjs,  at  Welsh  festivals; 

I  hear  the  minnesingers,  singing  their  lays  of  love ; 

I  hear  the  minstrels,  gleemen,  troubadours,  of  the  feudal  ages. 


"'  Now  the  great  organ  sounds. 

Tremulous — while  underneath,  (as  the  hid  footholds  of  the  earth. 

On  which  arising,  rest,  and  leaping  forth,  depend. 

All  shapes  of  beauty,  grace,  and  strength — all  hues  we  know. 

Green  blades   of  grass,  and  warbling  birds — children   that   gambol 

and  play — the  clouds  of  heaven  above,) 
The  strong  base  stands,  and  its  pulsations  intermits  not, 
Bathing,  supporting,  merging  all  the  rest — maternity  of  all  the  rest ; 
And  with  it  every  instrument  in  multitudes. 
The  players  playing — all  the  world's  musicians, 
The  solemn  hymns  and  masses,  rousing  adoration, 
All  j^assionate  heart-chants,  sorrowful  appeals, 
The  measureless  sweet  vocalists  of  ages ; 
And  for  their  solvent  setting,  Earth's  owmi  diapason, 
Of  winds  and  woods  and  mighty  ocean  waves  ; 
A  new  composite  orchestra  —  binder  of  years  and  climes — ten-fold 

renewer, 
As  of  the  far-back  days  the  poets  tell — the  Paradiso, 

6G2  ' 


WHITMAN. 

The  stvaying  thence,  the  separation  long, but  now  the  wandering  clone, 
The  journey  done,  the  Journeyman  come  home. 
And  Man  and  Art,  with  Nature  fused  again. 

6 
s  Tutti !  for  Earth  and  Heaven  ! 
The  Almighty  Leader  now  for  me,  for  once,  has  signal'd  with  his  wand. 

^  The  manly  strophe  of  the  husbands  of  the  world, 
And  all  the  wives  responding. 

'°  The  tongues  of  violins  ! 

(I  think,  O  tongues,  ye  tell  this  heart,  that  cannot  tell  itself; 

This  brooding,  yearning  heart,  that  cannot  tell  itself) 

7 
'1  Ah,  from  a  little  child, 

Thou'knowest,  Soul,  how  to  me  all  sounds  became  music; 
My  mother's  voice,  in  lullaby  or  hymn  ; 
(The  voice — O  tender  voices — memory's  loving  voices  ! 
Last  miracle  of  all — O  dearest  mother's,  sister's,  voices ;) 
The  rain,  the  growing  corn,  the  breeze  among  the  long-leav'd  corn, 
The  measur'd  sea-surf,  beating  on  the  sand, 
The  twittering  bird,  the  hawk's  sharp  scream, 
The  wild- fowl's   notes   at  night,  as  flying  low,  migrating  north  or 

south. 
The  psalm  in  the  country  church,  or,  mid  the  clustering  trees,  the 

open  air  camp-meeting. 
The  fiddler  in  the  tavern — the  glee,  the  long-strung  sailor-song. 
The  lowing  cattle,  bleating  sheep — the  crowing  cock  at  dawn. 


'2  All  songs  of  current  lands  come  sounding  'round  me. 
The  German  airs  of  friendship,  wine  and  love, 
Irish  ballads,  merry  jigs  and  dances — English  warbles. 
Chansons  of  France,  Scotch  tunes — and  o'er  the  rest, 
Italia's  peerless  compositions. 

GG3 


PROUD  MUSIC  OF  THE  STORM. 

'^  Across  the  stage,  with  pallor  on  her  face,  yet  lurid  passion, 
Stalks  Norma,  brandishing  the  dagger  in  her  hand. 

^*  I  see  poor  crazed  Liacia's  eyes'  unnatural  gleam ; 
Her  hair  down  her  back  falls  loose  and  dishevell'd. 

■  '^  I  see  where  Ernani,  walking  the  bridal  garden. 
Amid  the   scent   of  night  -  roses,  radiant,  holding  his  bride  by  the 

hand. 
Hears  the  infernal  call,  the  death-pledge  of  the  horn. 

^^  To  crossing  swords,  and  grey  hairs  bared  to  heaven. 
The  clear,  electric  base  and  baritone  of  the  world. 
The  trombone  duo — Libertad  forever ! 

^■^  From  Spanish  chestnut-trees'  dense  shade. 

By  old  and  heavy  convent  walls,  a  wailing  song, 

Song  of  lost  love — the  torch  of  youth  and  life  quench'd  in  despair, 

Song  of  the  dying  swan — Fernando's  heart  is  breaking. 

^^  Awaking  from  her  woes  at  last,  retriev'd  Amina  sings ; 

Copious  as  stars,  and  glad  as  morning  light,  the  torrents  of  her  joy. 

'^  (The  teeming  lady  comes  ! 

The  lustrious  orb — Venus  contralto — the  blooming  mother, 

Sister  of  loftiest  gods — Alboni's  self  I  hear.) 

9 
2°  I  hear  those  odes,  symphonies,  operas  ; 

I  hear  in  the  William  Tell,  the  music  of  an  arous'd  and  angry  people ; 
I  hear  Meyerbeer's  Huguenots,  the  Prophet,  or  Robert  j 
Gounod's  Faust,  or  Mozart's  Don  Juan. 

10 
2^  I  hear  the  dance-music  of  all  nations, 

The  waltz,  (some  delicious  measure,  lapsing,  bathing  me  in  bliss  ;) 
The  bolero,  to  tinkling  guitars  and  clattering  castanets. 

604 


( 


\ 


WHITMAN. 

22  I  see  religions  dances,  old  and  new  ; 
I  hear  the  sound  of  the  Hebrew  lyre  ; 
I  see   the  Crusaders   marching,  bearing   the  Cross   on   high,  to    the 

clang  of  cymbals ; 
I  hear    dervishes    monotonously    chanting,  interspers'd  with    frantic 

shouts,  as  they  spin  around,  turning  always  towards  Mecca  ; 
I  see  the  rapt  religious  dances  of  the  Persians  and  the  Arabs  ; 
Again,  at  Eleusis,  home  of  Ceres,  I  see  the  modei-n  Greeks  dancing, 
I  hear  them  clapping  their  hands,  as  they  bend  their  bodies, 
I  hear  the  metrical  shuffling  of  their  feet. 

2^  I   see    again    the    wild    old   Corybantian    dance,   the    performers 

Avounding  each  other ; 
I  see  the  Roman  youth,  to  the  shrill  sound  of  flageolets,  throwing 

and  catching  their  weapons, 
As  they  fall  on  their  knees,  and  rise  again. 

2*  I  hear  from  the  Mussulman  mosque  the  muezzin  calling  ; 

I  see  the  worshippers  within, (nor  form,  nor  sermon,  argument,  nor  word, 

But  silent,  strange,  devout — rais'd,  glowing  heads — ecstatic  faces.) 

11 

25  I  hear  the  Egyptian  harp  of  many  strings. 
The  primitive  chants  of  the  Nile  boatmen  ; 
Tlie  sacred  imperial  hymns  of  China, 

To  the  delicate  sounds  of  the  king,  (the  stricken  wood  and  stone :) 
Or  to  Hindu  flutes,  and  the  fretting  twang  of  the  vina, 
A  band  of  bayaderes. 

12 

26  Now  Asia,  Africa  leave  me — Europe,  seizing,  inflates  me  ; 

To  organs  huge,  and  bands,  I  hear  as  from  vast  concourses  of  voices, 

Luther's  strong  hymn,  Eine  feste  Burg  ist  loiser  Gott ; 

Rossini's  Stahat  Plater  dolorosa; 

Or,  floating    in    some    high    cathedral    dim,  with   gorgeous    color'd 

windows. 
The  passionate  Agynis  2>e?,  or  Gloria  in  Excelsis. 

665 


PROUD  MUSIC  or  THE  STORM. 


13 

2^  Composers  !  mighty  Maestros  ! 


And  you,  sweet  siugers  of  old  lands — Soprani !  Tenori !  Bassi ! 
To  you  a  new  bard,  carolling  free  in  the  West, 
Obeisant,  sends  his  love. 


"5 


28  (Such  led  to  thee,  O  Soul ! 

All  senses,  shows  and  objects,  lead  to  thee. 

But  now,  it  seems  to  me,  sound  leads  o'er  all  the  rest.) 

14 

•^  I  hear  the  annual  singing  of  the  children  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral ; 
Or,  under  the  high  roof  of  some  colossal  hall,  the  symphonies,  ora- 
torios of  Beethoven,  Handel,  or  Haydn ; 
The  Creation^  in  billows  of  godhood  laves  me. 

2"  Give  me  to  hold  all  sounds,  (I,  madly  struggling,  cry,) 

Fill  me  with  all  the  voices  of  the  universe. 

Endow  me  with  their  throbbings — Nature's  also. 

The  tempests,  waters,  winds — operas  and  chants — marches  and  dances, 

Utter — pour  in — for  I  would  take  them  all. 

15 

^^  Then  I  woke  softly. 

And  pausing,  questioning  aAvhile  the  music  of  my  dream. 
And  questioning  all  those  reminiscences — the  tempest  in  its  fury, 
And  all  the  songs  of  sopranos  and  tenors. 
And  those  rapt  Oriental  dances,  of  religious  fervor. 
And  the  sweet  varied  instruments,  and  the  diapason  of  organs. 
And  all  the  artless  plaints  of  love,  and  grief  and  death, 
I  said  to   my   silent,  curious  Soul,  out   of  the  bed  of  the   slumber- 
chamber, 
Come,  for  I  have  found  the  clue  I  sought  so  long. 
Let  us  go  forth  refresh'd  amid  the  day. 
Cheerfully  tallying  life,  walking  the  world,  the  real, 
Nourish'd  henceforth  by  our  celestial  dream. 

r,G6 


WHITMAN. 

^2  And  I  said,  moreover, 

Haply,  what  thou  hast  heard,  O  Soul,  was  not  the  sound  of  winds. 

Nor  dream  of  raging  storm,  nor  sea-hawk's  flapping  wings,  nor  harsh 

scream, 
Nor  vocalism  of  sun-bright  Italy, 
Nor  German   organ   majestic  —  nor  vast   concourse    of  voices  —  nor 

layers  of  harmonies  ; 
Nor  strophes  of  husbands  and  wives — nor  sound  of  marching  soldiers, 
Nor  flutes,  nor  harps,  nor  bugle-calls  of  camps ; 
But,  to  a  new  rhythmus  fitted  for  thee. 
Poems,  bridging   the   way   from  Life   to  Death,  vaguely  wafted  in 

night  air,  uncaught,  unwritten. 
Which,  let  us  go  forth  in  the  bold  day,  and  wn-ite. 


G67 


-'  (^. 


~m^ 


KETCHUM. 


DOLORES. 


In  beauty  fairer  far 
Than  the  divinest  dream  of  him  who  drew 
The  stately  Eos  guiding  up  the  blue 

Her  gemmed  and  golden  car, 

668 


KETCHUM. 

From  the  dusk  realm  of  night 
Comes  forth  the  radiant  morning,  brushing  back 
The  clouds  like  blossoms  from  her  rosy  track 

With  diamond  dews  bedight. 

The  priestly  mocking-bird 
Wakens  the  grossbeak  with  his  early  hymn, 
And  down  the  slopes,  and  through  the  woodlands  dim. 

Sweet,  holy  sounds  are  heard. 

V 

Her  gold-enamelled  bells 
The  tall  campanula  rings  ;  'mid  daisies  white 
The  lithe,  slim  phalaris*  flaunts  his  pennons  bright 

O'er  all  the  grassy  swells. 

The  benzoin's  breath  divine 
Spices  the  air ;  the  jasmine  censers  swing ; 
Among  the  ferns  beside  the  darkling  spring 

The  mailed  nasturtions  shine. 


The  brown  bees  come  and  go ; 
His  cheerful  tune  the  lonely  cricket  sings ; 
While  the  quick  dragon-fly,  on  lightning  wings. 

Darts  flashing  to  and  fro. 


Pomegranates,  golden-brown. 
Drop  delicate  nectar  through  each  rifted  rind; 
And  ghostly  witches'-featherf  on  the  Avind 

Comes  slowly  riding  down. 


*  The  ribbon-gi'ass  of  Southern  Texas  (^Phalaris  Americana)  is  remark- 
able for  its  splendid  colours. 

t  The  winged  seeds  of  a  species  of  thistle. 


DOLORES. 


The  gray  cicada  sings 
Drowsily  amid  th'  acacia's  feathery  leaves ; 
Around  her  web  the  caterpillar  weaves 

The  last  white  silken  rings. 


October  silently 
His  pleasant  work  fulfils  with  busy  hands, 
While,  cheering  him,  floats  o'er  the  shining  sands 

The  murmur  of  the  sea. 


Deep  in  the  shady  dell 
The  cowherd,  whistling  at  his  own  rude  will. 
Lists,  with  bared  head,  as  from  the  distant  hill 

Rings  out  St.  Michael's  bell, 


Calling,  with  warning  lips. 
Matron  and  maid,  albeit  the  south  winds  blow, 
To  climb  the  height,  and  pi'ay  for  them  that  go 

Down  to  the  sea  in  ships. 

The  fishers  in  the  boats. 
Mending  their  nets  with  murmurous  song  and  noise. 
Stop  sudden,  as  Dolores'  silver  voice 

From  the  gray  chapel  floats. 

They  think  how,  o'er  the  bay, 
The  sailor  bridegroom,  from  her  white  arms  torn, 
Sailed  in  the  haze  and  gold  of  Michaelmas  morn — 

One  year  ago  to-day. 

Then,  rocking  with  the  tide. 
They  reckon  up  the  news  of  yesterday, 
And  count  what  time  to-day  within  the  bay 

The  home-bound  ship  may  ride. 
670 


KETCHUM. 

Dreaming,  tlie  long  night  hours, 
Of  white  sails  coming  o'er  the  tossing  deep, 
At  dawn  this  morning  from  her  strange,  glad  sleep 

She  rose  to  gather  flowei's. 

Cups  honeyed  to  the  brim, 
And  fruits,  and  brilliant  grasses,  and  the  stems 
Of  myrtles,  with  their  waxen  diadems, 

To  offer  unto  him. 


Beside  the  chapel  porch. 
The  Gloria  ended,  lingering  now,  she  turns 
To  look,  as  on  the  brightening  spire-cross  burns 

The  morning's  golden  torch ; 

ft 

Then  sees,  wnth  sober  glee. 
The  swift  prophetic  sea-gulls  flying  south. 
Far  out  beyond  the  landlocked  harbour's  mouth, 

Into  the  open  sea. 

"  Steady,  thou  freshening  breeze," 
Her  dark  eyes  say,  as  o'er  the  sparkling  main 
She  gazes  ;  "  steady,  till  thou  bring  again 

The  ship  from  distant  seas ; 

"  So,  ere  his  golden  Avine 
The  setting  sun  adown  the  valley  pour, 
Dear  eyes  may  watch  Avith  me,  beside  the  door. 

The  autumn  day  decline." 

O  breeze  !     O  sea-birds  white  ! 
Ye  may  not  bring  her  from  that  rocky  coast — 
The  stranded  ship — nor  wrest  the  tempest-tossed 

From  the  black  billow's  might ; 
G71 


DOLORES. 

But  wheu  she  Avearily 
Shall  pray  for  comfort,  of  that  country  tell 
Where  all  the  lost  are  crowned  with  asphodel, 

And  there  is  no  more  sea. 


672 


LEMON. 

OLD  TIME  AND  I. 

Old  Time  and  I  the  other  night 

Had  a  carouse  together ; 
The  wine  was  golden,  Avarni,  and  bright — 

Ay  !  just  like  summer  weather. 
Quoth  I,  "  There's  Christmas  come  again, 

And  I  no  farthing  richer;" 
Time  answered,  "Ah !  the  old,  old  strain— 

I  prithee  pass  the  pitcher. 

"Why  measure  all  your  good  in  gold? 

No  vope  of  sand  is  weaker ; 
'Tis  hard  to  get,  'tis  hard  to  hold — 

Come,  lad,  fill  up  your  beaker. 
Hast  thou  not  found  true  friends  more  true. 

And  loving  ones  more  loving  ?" 
I  could  but  say,  "A  fcAv — a  few ; 

So  keep  the  liquor  moving." 

"Hast  thou  not  seen  the  prosp'rous  knave 

Come  down  a  precious  thumper  ? 
His  cheats  disclosed?"     "I  have — I  have!" 

"  Well,  surely  that's  a  bumper." 
"Nay,  hold  a  while;  I've  seen  the  just 

Find  all  their  hopes  grow  dimmer." 
"They  will  hope  on,  and  strive,  and  trust, 

And  conquer!"     "That's  a  brimmer." 

073  I'  L- 


OLD  TIME  AND  I. 

"  'Tis  not  because  to-day  is  dark, 
No  brighter  day's  before  'em ; 

There's  rest  for  every  storm-toss'd  bark." 
"  So  be  it !     Pass  the  jorum  !" 

"  Yet  I  must  own  1  should  not  mind 
To  be  a  little  richer." 

"  Labour  and  wait,  and  you  may  find- 
Hallo  !  an  empty  pitcher." 


THE    END. 


f574 


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